Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The fire burned low. A chill clung to the air despite the warmth of the flames, the kind that seeped through layers of fabric. 

The others had begun to settle in. Frodo curled up with his cloak wrapped tightly around him, Sam not far behind, murmuring something about breakfast in his sleep. Gimli snored softly a few feet away, and beyond that, Merry and Pippin muttered to one another before drifting off. Boromir was still awake, seated apart from them, polishing his sword with the quiet focus of a man trying to chase away his own thoughts.

But Aragorn could not bring himself to find sleep, not when Legolas sat beside him, quiet and still, his gaze turned toward the trees as if listening to something Aragorn could not hear.

How many nights had they sat like this? Close but not close enough. Together but never touching.

Aragorn had grown used to Legolas' presence, perhaps too used to it. There had been a time when he did not allow himself to rely on others, not in ways that mattered. But Legolas had never asked for permission to become something constant in Aragorn’s life. He simply had. And now, Aragorn was left with the gnawing ache of wanting something he should not.

He turned, his eyes tracing the angles of Legolas' face. The sharp, elven elegance, the high cheekbones, the impossibly smooth skin that caught the firelight and made him seem something half-formed of the stars. His hair, light as spun silver, barely moved in the still air, and when he blinked, his lashes were so long that they cast faint shadows against his cheeks.

He was beautiful. Oh, Valar he was beautiful.

But it was not his beauty that drew Aragorn in, it never had been. It was the quiet patience with which Legolas listened, the sharp wit, the unwavering loyalty that had carried them this far. It was the way he understood Aragorn without needing words. And tonight Aragorn felt something had shifted between them.

He inhaled deeply, steadying himself before speaking. "Legolas," he said, his voice low and uncertain.

Legolas turned to him at once, as if he had been waiting. Always waiting. "Yes, Estel?"

Aragorn swallowed. "I... I have been thinking."

Legolas tilted his head slightly. "About what?"

Aragorn hesitated. The words sat heavy on his tongue, a weight he wasn’t sure he could bear to release. He wanted to say it. He had never wanted anything more.

But he was a man bound to duty. And duty demanded sacrifice.

What right did he have to ask for more than what they already had? To burden Legolas with something that could never be easy? 

He nearly let the words die in his throat. But then Legolas shifted, just slightly, and in that simple movement, in the way his body turned ever so slightly toward Aragorn, Aragorn realized he could not pretend anymore.

"About us," Aragorn said finally, the words barely above a whisper. "About what this is. What it could be."

Legolas stilled. For a long moment, there was nothing. No movement. No breath. Just silence. Then, softly, "Estel… what do you mean?"

Aragorn let out a slow breath, shaking his head at himself. He could still walk away from this moment. He could bury it, pretend it had never surfaced. But Legolas' eyes caught the firelight, and Aragorn knew it was already too late.

"I think..." He clenched his fists. "I think I have been falling for you. And I do not know when it began, only that I cannot seem to stop it."

Legolas' breath hitched, just barely, but Aragorn caught it.

"I have been trying," Aragorn continued. "I have been telling myself that this is not the time, that this is foolish, that it is not something I can have. But every time I look at you…" He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Every time I see you fight, every time you stand beside me, I…"

He let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "I cannot lie to you, not anymore."

Legolas said nothing for a long time. Slowly, so slowly that it felt like the world had stopped turning, he reached out. His fingers brushed against Aragorn’s hand, so light, so uncertain, as if waiting for Aragorn to pull away. 

But he did not.

"I have felt the same way for some time now," Legolas murmured, the words soft but sure. "I have merely been waiting for you to see it."

Aragorn let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He closed his fingers around Legolas' hand, his thumb brushing across the back of it.

"Then I truly have been blind."

Legolas chuckled. "Perhaps. But only in this."

Aragorn lifted a hand, hesitating only for a moment before cupping Legolas' cheek. Legolas leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut for the briefest of moments before opening again.

"No more waiting," he murmured.

Aragorn’s heart thundered as he leaned in, capturing Legolas’ lips in a kiss. 

It was not rushed, not desperate. It was deep. It was years of silent longing, of quiet understanding, of battles fought side by side and trust. Legolas made a soft sound against his lips, not a sigh, not quite a gasp, something in between that made Aragorn’s knees weak.

He moved closer without thinking, his fingers sliding into Legolas’ hair, tilting his head, deepening the kiss. Legolas’ lips were warm, softer than he had imagined. 

They parted slowly, reluctantly, foreheads resting against each other. Aragorn exhaled, pressing his eyes shut.

Their breaths mingled in the space between them, and for a moment, neither spoke. There was no need. Legolas hadn’t pulled away. That alone made Aragorn’s pulse race.

Even now, with his lips still tingling from the kiss, his fingers resting against Legolas' cheek, he found himself half-convinced this was some fever-dream, one of those stolen moments between battles where exhaustion took hold and led him down paths he dared not walk in the waking world. But Legolas shifted, pressing the side of his face against Aragorn’s palm, and that simple act shattered all illusions.

He was real. This was real.

Legolas’ eyes remained half-lidded, his breathing measured yet slightly uneven, as if the weight of this moment had unsettled even him.

"You are staring," Legolas murmured at last, his lips curving into the barest hint of a smile.

Aragorn huffed a quiet laugh, though he did not move his hand. How could he not stare?

"It is strange," Aragorn admitted, his voice quieter now. "I have known you for years. And yet… tonight, I feel as if I am seeing you for the first time."

Legolas tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "And what do you see, Estel?" 

Aragorn exhaled slowly, his thumb brushing absently over the smooth plane of Legolas’ cheekbone. "I see a prince of the Woodland Realm," he murmured. "A warrior who moves as though he was born from the wind itself. A creature of starlight and steel." He hesitated for only a breath before adding, "And I see the only one who has ever made me feel as though I do not have to carry the weight of the world alone."

Legolas' lips parted slightly. Not in surprise, but in something deeper, something almost reverent. "Aragorn…"

Hearing his name like that, not Estel, but Aragorn , raw from Legolas’ lips, sent something sharp through his chest.

Gods. Had he always wanted this?

No, he had always wanted him.

Legolas' breath caught, and then he moved. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted a hand to Aragorn’s, turning his face just slightly so that his lips brushed against Aragorn’s palm. This was different from their kiss. That had been a step forward, but this? This was Legolas making a choice.

Aragorn swallowed hard. "I—" He broke off, shaking his head as if to clear it. "Legolas, I do not know if I can promise you anything beyond this moment."

It was the truth. He was a man bound to duty, to fate, to a future that did not belong to him alone. Legolas held his gaze, and for a moment, Aragorn feared he would pull away. But instead, Legolas smiled. "Then we will take only what we can, for as long as we are able."

Aragorn let out a soft, shuddering breath. "You make it sound simple."

Legolas huffed. "Because it is. We are here. We are together. That is enough."

It was not an oath. Not a vow. Not a declaration that would bind them beyond the days ahead. But it was a promise nonetheless. And it was one Aragorn could allow himself to keep.

Then, because he could, because he was allowed , Aragorn leaned in again. This time, Legolas met him halfway.

The kiss was slower now, lingering. Legolas did not demand. He did not rush. He simply met Aragorn’s lips with his own, parted just slightly, allowing Aragorn to taste the warmth of him.

Aragorn sighed into him, his fingers threading into Legolas’ hair, feeling the silk of it, the way it slipped between his fingers like water. And then Legolas' hands found their way to Aragorn’s shoulders, pulling him closer, his fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic, anchoring himself.

A sharp inhale. A quiet exhale. Their foreheads pressed together, neither moving away, neither speaking. And when Aragorn finally opened his eyes, he found Legolas already watching him.

"You are real," Aragorn murmured, more to himself than anything. Legolas' lips twitched slightly. "I would hope so."

Aragorn laughed softly. "If I am dreaming, I do not wish to wake."

Legolas tilted his head, his fingers brushing lightly against Aragorn’s jaw. "Then sleep, Estel. I will keep watch." 

It was an easy offer. A simple thing. And yet, Aragorn knew it meant more. It meant Legolas would be there when he woke. And for tonight, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The sky split open and poured its fury upon the land. Heavy droplets struck the earth, soaking into the dirt and turning it into thick, clinging mud. The members of the Fellowship trudged forward, their cloaks rapidly becoming drenched, when Merry let out a small yelp of protest.

"We’re going to drown at this rate!" Pippin added, pulling his hood up to little effect. "Gandalf, can we stop? Just for a bit?"

Gandalf, whose hat was sagging slightly from the downpour, surveyed the sky with an exasperated sigh before nodding. "Very well. We shall wait for the worst of it to pass. Take shelter beneath the trees."

A scramble ensued as the Fellowship hurried for cover. Some clustered together beneath the larger trees, their thick branches offering slight relief from the storm. Aragorn and Legolas, however, had found themselves beneath a smaller tree, its limbs offering little in the way of protection. The rain still fell through the leaves, dripping down their faces and pooling in the folds of their cloaks.

Legolas, unbothered by the rain, watched as Aragorn pushed his damp hair back, droplets of water tracing down his temples and jawline. Aragorn’s features were softened by the rain, the normally rugged lines of his face almost delicate, as droplets ran down his jawline and along his neck. Legolas could see how the water clung to him, tracing paths down his chest and disappearing into his cloak, and yet it only seemed to enhance the beauty of Aragorn.

The way the rain made his hair darker, how it curled slightly in places. It made Legolas’ heart ache. He looked magnificent like this, wild and unkempt, the weight of kingship and war momentarily washed away by nature’s touch. 

“Aragorn…” Legolas said, his voice low. He took a step closer, his wet feet slipping slightly in the thick mud, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was the man in front of him. He reached out, gently lifting Aragorn’s chin with the touch of his fingers. The way his hand lingered there, trembling ever so slightly, wasn’t because of the cold, but from the intensity of his feelings. “You are so beautiful.”

His words were quiet, but to Legolas, they felt like the most truthful things he had ever spoken. Aragorn met his gaze, his eyes soft and full of something that mirrored Legolas’ own feelings, something deeper than the physical attraction. A slow smile spread across Aragorn’s lips. “You are beautiful, Legolas,” he murmured.

Legolas let out a small laugh, shaking his head as droplets scattered from the tips of his golden hair. "I look like a drenched fawn at best." Aragorn stepped closer. "No," he murmured, "you look like the most beautiful thing I have ever seen."

A droplet of water traced a slow path down Legolas' forehead, slipping down the bridge of his nose, pausing at the curve of his upper lip before continuing its journey to his chin. Aragorn’s gaze followed its path, his eyes darkening as he reached out, his fingers brushing gently beneath Legolas’ chin. He tilted the elf’s face up, his touch warm despite the chill of the rain.

"Legolas," Aragorn breathed, and Legolas barely had a moment to close his eyes before Aragorn’s lips were on his. The kiss was soft. Warmth bloomed between them despite the rain cascading down, despite the cold pressing in from all sides. Legolas sighed into it, his fingers finding purchase at Aragorn’s waist, pulling him closer as their bodies met in a damp embrace.

Aragorn deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping gently against Legolas' lower lip before the elf parted for him. Their tongues met in a slow, languid dance, exploring. Rainwater mixed with the taste of Aragorn. Legolas felt lost in it, in the warmth of Aragorn’s body against his own, in the way Aragorn's hands held him like something precious, one resting against the small of his back, the other threading into his damp hair. He no longer felt the cold, nor the rain soaking through his tunic. There was only this, only Aragorn .

Time lost meaning as they remained locked together, breathing each other in, pressing closer despite already being as near as they could be. The storm raged around them, but they were untouched by it. 

When they finally parted, their breaths mingled in the cool air, their foreheads resting together as they steadied themselves. Legolas opened his eyes, finding Aragorn watching him with an expression so full of love it sent a shiver through him that had nothing to do with the rain.

Aragorn smiled softly, brushing a stray strand of wet hair from Legolas’ cheek. "I love you," he whispered.

Legolas exhaled, pressing one more fleeting kiss to Aragorn’s lips before murmuring, "I love you, too."

And as the storm continued to rage on, Legolas felt an overwhelming sense of peace settle in his heart. Despite everything they had yet to face, despite the uncertainties that still loomed in the future, he knew this: they had each other.

Chapter Text

The fire flickered dimly in the center of the camp, casting long shadows against the canvas walls of the tent. The night was unnervingly still, save for the occasional rustle of the wind through the trees. Inside the tent, the emptiness felt heavier than the weight of the world.

Aragorn sat on the edge of his cot, eyes lingering on the empty space beside him. It had only been a few hours since Legolas had left for his scouting mission, but already it felt like an eternity. The cold, empty side of the cot was a stark reminder of how much his presence meant to Aragorn, how much he meant to Aragorn.

It wasn’t that Aragorn doubted Legolas. He knew the elf was strong, capable, and well-prepared for the task ahead. He had seen Legolas navigate the wilds with the grace and precision of his kin, and yet tonight, the idea of being without him felt like a hollow pit in his chest. He had always known that the elf was different from anyone he had ever met. Not just in beauty and in skill. But in the way he made the world feel whole.

He had tried to ignore the gnawing feeling of emptiness as Legolas stepped away from the camp, his footsteps swallowed by the darkness. The words from earlier still echoed in his mind: “I’ll be back before you know it.” They were meant to reassure, and yet, somehow, they had only made the distance between them feel more profound. 

Aragorn’s hand reached out, fingers brushing the cold linen of the cot where Legolas had slept only hours before. The coldness of the empty cot beside him was overwhelming. The sheets were cool to the touch, untouched by the warmth of Legolas. It felt... unnatural. Aragorn turned again, reaching for the empty space, his hand outstretched as if he could somehow pull Legolas back through the darkness. But nothing was there. Only the hollow silence.

He closed his eyes, the ache in his chest intensifying. Why does this feel so wrong? he wondered. It was just one night. One night apart.

But it wasn’t just about the distance. It wasn’t the simple fact that Legolas wasn’t physically there. It was the way Aragorn had become so accustomed to the elf’s presence, the way Legolas had filled a space in his heart that had been empty for so long.

And now, that space was a void.

The fire flickered weakly as Aragorn lay down, tossing and turning, unable to silence the rush of thoughts that clattered in his mind. Every minute felt like an eternity. The silence was deafening, the absence of Legolas pressing down on him like a weight.

He tried to close his eyes, to rest, but the thought of Legolas out there in the wilds alone, alone without him, kept him wide awake. What if something happens? What if Legolas was ambushed, or worse, hurt? What if the elf didn’t return? His breath quickened as anxiety tightened its grip on him. No. He will come back. He promised. 

“Legolas,” he whispered into the night, his voice rough with longing. It was a word that felt too small to carry the weight of his feelings. The fire crackled, but it did nothing to ease the anxiety building inside him. How could he sleep without the elf by his side? Without that comforting presence of Legolas that had become so familiar, so vital to him?

He closed his eyes, but his mind raced through every possible danger, every dark corner of the world that could threaten Legolas. Minutes stretched into hours, and still, sleep eluded him.

The first light of dawn was barely breaking when Aragorn heard the soft sound of footsteps outside the tent. His heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, he held his breath, hoping, praying , that it was Legolas returning. His ears strained to catch the familiar sound of the elf’s footsteps, the soft rustle of his cloak.

And then, the flap of the tent lifted, and there, standing in the doorway, was Legolas, alive, whole, and more beautiful than ever. His hair glistened with the dew of the morning, his cloak damp from the mist, but there was no sign of harm. He looked every bit the elf that Aragorn had come to know.

For a moment, Aragorn just stared, unable to speak, his chest tight with emotion. Legolas’ gaze softened when he saw him, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"I see you missed me," Legolas said, his voice light with teasing. Without a word, Aragorn stood up, his arms outstretched, as though he could never pull the elf close enough. He moved quickly, his hands gripping Legolas tightly, pulling him into an embrace so strong it almost seemed desperate. His heart was still pounding from the anxiety that had consumed him throughout the night, and the relief of seeing Legolas safe in his arms was overwhelming.

"I never want to feel this empty again," Aragorn whispered against Legolas’ neck. Legolas held him, his arms wrapped around Aragorn’s back, his breath steady and reassuring against the ranger’s skin. "It’s okay," Legolas whispered softly, his lips brushing against Aragorn’s ear. "I’m here now."

Aragorn pulled back slightly, just enough to look into Legolas’ eyes. He cupped Legolas’ face in his hands, his thumb gently tracing the curve of his cheek. His heart beat in sync with the elf’s, steady and strong. "I love you, Legolas," he murmured. Legolas’ eyes softened. “And I love you," he replied.

Aragorn kissed him then, a slow, lingering kiss that carried all the emotions he couldn’t express in words. Relief, love, longing, and the overwhelming need to never feel that kind of emptiness again. When they parted, Legolas smiled softly, his fingers tracing Aragorn’s jaw.

Aragorn smiled back, his heart finally at ease. "Promise me one thing," he said, his voice low.

“What?”

“Promise to always return to me.”

Legolas’ smile softened, and he kissed Aragorn again, this time quick and gentle. “I will always return to you, Aragorn. You have my word.” And for the first time that night, and for many nights to come, Aragorn felt whole again, his heart full, his soul at peace. 

Chapter Text

The fire crackled softly, its golden glow flickering against the trees. The night was peaceful, untouched by the weight of war or duty. The stars above twinkled in quiet witness to a moment so rare it felt almost delicate, one Legolas wanted to wrap in silk and tuck away, safe from the world.

Aragorn sat beside him, sleeves rolled up, hands steady but entirely out of place in their current task. The ranger was many things, a warrior, a leader, a king-to-be—but a cook? That, he was not.

Legolas, on the other hand, had learned long ago how to prepare meals with whatever the wilds provided. Even the most graceful of elves needed to eat. And if one must eat, one must at least ensure it was edible.

“I do not see why we cannot just eat trail rations,” he muttered, squinting down at the onion he was attempting—very, very poorly—to dice.

Legolas, carefully stirring the pot over the fire, arched a delicate brow. “Because unlike you, I do not wish to suffer.”

Aragorn huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You are spoiled.”

“Spoiled?” Legolas repeated, incredulous. “You say this while wielding that knife as if it were Andúril. Truly, Estel, are you fighting the onion or cutting it?”

Aragorn glanced down at his handiwork. The onion had been butchered in a way that would make any self-respecting cook weep. Uneven chunks, some as large as his thumb, others nearly paper-thin. It was a massacre.

He sighed, setting the knife down. “It appears I have lost this battle.”

Legolas stepped closer, peering over Aragorn’s shoulder before nudging him aside. “Here. Allow me.”

Aragorn did not resist. He simply stepped back, watching with admiration as Legolas made quick work of the onion, his movements precise and effortless.

“You make it look easy,” Aragorn murmured.

Legolas smirked. “Because it is.”

Aragorn rolled his eyes but said nothing, instead reaching for the salt.

That was when Legolas caught sight of his hand—poised to upend far too much into their carefully prepared meal. His entire body tensed.

“That is too much salt, Estel.”

Aragorn hesitated, glancing between Legolas and the pot. “Are you sure? It does not seem—”

Before he could finish, Legolas swiftly plucked the container from his hands, setting it firmly out of reach.

Aragorn blinked. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face.

“Do you not trust me?” he asked, voice full of feigned hurt.

Legolas let out an exasperated sigh. “I trust you with my life. Not my dinner.”

Aragorn let out a laugh—loud, warm, and so terribly fond. It sent a pleasant shiver down Legolas’ spine.

“I am wounded,” Aragorn declared, placing a hand over his heart as if Legolas had struck him with a blade. “You wound me, meleth.”

Legolas rolled his eyes, stirring the pot as he fought back a smile. “You will survive.”

Aragorn, apparently unwilling to accept such cruelty, took two quick steps forward—before Legolas could react, warm hands found his waist, and a familiar weight pressed against his back.

“Estel,” he warned, even as Aragorn nuzzled into the curve of his neck.

“Mmm.” Aragorn hummed in response, lips grazing his skin. “I think you should apologize.”

Legolas stilled, the spoon hovering above the pot.

Oh, he was impossible.

A kiss. Just the lightest brush of lips against his jaw. Then another, softer this time, trailing up to the delicate point of his ear.

Legolas let out an exasperated sigh, though his heart did a foolish little flutter. “You are a distraction,” he muttered.

Aragorn chuckled, the sound vibrating against his skin. “And yet, you are not stopping me.”

Legolas turned in his arms, intending to scold him properly, but as soon as he did, Aragorn’s hands slid up to cradle his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. His eyes—filled with nothing but love—looked at him like he was the only thing in the world.

Legolas barely had a moment to breathe before Aragorn kissed him.

It was soft at first, unhurried, like they had all the time in the world. Then, as if something in Aragorn broke, he deepened it—fingers tangling in Legolas’ hair, tilting his head just so.

Legolas melted. There was no other way to describe it.

He clutched at Aragorn’s tunic, fingers curling into the fabric as if to keep himself grounded. When they finally broke apart, Legolas was breathless.

“The stew,” he murmured against Aragorn’s lips, though his grip on him did not loosen.

Aragorn grinned, entirely unrepentant. “The stew can wait.”

Legolas sighed, shaking his head. “You are impossible.”

“And yet,” Aragorn said, pressing another kiss to the corner of his mouth, “you love me still.”

Legolas did not argue.

Later, when they sat together by the fire, bowls in hand, Aragorn was watching him again.

That quiet, unwavering gaze. The kind that made Legolas feel as though he was something more.

Aragorn reached over, thumb swiping at the corner of Legolas’ mouth.

“You had a crumb,” he said, voice far too serious.

Legolas gave him a look. “You just wanted an excuse to touch me.”

Aragorn’s grin was devastatingly boyish. “Caught.”

Legolas shook his head, but before Aragorn could say anything else, he leaned in, pressing a soft, slow kiss to his lips.

Aragorn made a surprised sound, but he recovered quickly, deepening it, setting his bowl aside as he pulled Legolas closer.

They stayed like that for a long while, stealing kisses between quiet laughter, between whispered I love you’s, between the warmth of firelight and the sound of the trees swaying in the wind.

Chapter Text

The morning light filtered through the tall trees, casting a soft, golden glow over the forest. Birds chirped, and a quiet breeze rustled the leaves. But in the small, secluded glade where Legolas slept, everything seemed still, as if the world itself had paused to celebrate the special day. Legolas stirred from his slumber, blinking against the early sunlight, and a soft smile tugged at his lips when he realized it was his birthday.

However, before he could fully wake, he felt the warmth of a familiar presence. Aragorn was already up, his footsteps light as he moved around their camp. Legolas opened his eyes fully to see Aragorn standing by their small fire, a grin on his face, a bundle of wildflowers in his hands. Aragorn’s eyes sparkled with affection as he looked down at the flowers, clearly excited.

“Happy birthday, my love,” Aragorn said, his voice warm. He held the flowers out toward him. “For you. I know it’s not much, but… I thought they might make you smile.”

Legolas’ heart swelled as he sat up, the rare smile on his face full of warmth. The wildflowers were a mix of delicate daisies, soft purple heather, and bright red poppies—perfectly chosen for the day. He reached out, taking them from Aragorn’s hands, his fingers brushing against the man’s skin. “They are perfect, Estel. Just like you.”

Without thinking, he pressed a soft kiss to Aragorn’s cheek, the gesture light but full of love. Aragorn’s smile deepened, and he leaned in to brush his lips against Legolas’ forehead, lingering there for a moment.

“I wish I could give you the world,” Aragorn murmured. “But this… this is for you.”

Legolas didn’t speak, but his heart fluttered as he inhaled the scent of the flowers, the moment feeling like it could last forever. Everything was perfect, just as it was.

Later, as the day unfolded, Legolas found that Aragorn’s affection had no end. He’d prepared a small meal—fruits, bread, and cheese—nothing extravagant, but it was made with such thoughtfulness and love. The food was simple, yet as Legolas sat across from Aragorn, he felt an overwhelming warmth fill him. They shared their meal by the fire, talking quietly about their journeys, their dreams, and their love.

Aragorn couldn’t stop stealing glances at Legolas, his eyes filled with admiration. His gaze lingered on the elf’s beauty, the way the light caught his golden hair, the way his laughter made Aragorn’s heart race. Every little thing about Legolas seemed to captivate him.

“You’re so beautiful,” Aragorn whispered. 

Legolas blushed, though it wasn’t something that often happened. Aragorn made him feel things—things that went beyond what even an immortal elf could understand. He smiled softly, reaching across the table to take Aragorn’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “And you are my heart, Estel.”

As the day wore on, Aragorn found every opportunity to show his love, not that Legolas was complaining. He couldn’t stop smiling. Every moment with Aragorn was filled with tenderness, and Aragorn seemed utterly determined to make Legolas feel cherished.

When the sun began to set, casting a brilliant orange hue across the sky, Aragorn stood up and pulled a small package from his pack. Legolas looked at it curiously, wondering what more Aragorn could possibly give him. But when he opened it, his breath caught in his throat. It was a small, intricately crafted knife, its blade gleaming in the firelight. The hilt was engraved with their names, intertwined in a delicate, beautiful design.

“I… this is too much,” Legolas said softly, overwhelmed by the gesture. He traced the engraving with his fingers, his heart swelling.

Aragorn chuckled softly, his voice full of warmth. “It’s not much, Legolas. Just a symbol. A token of everything we’ve shared and will continue to share.”

Legolas looked up at Aragorn, his eyes misty with emotion. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

Aragorn’s smile widened, his hand gently cupping Legolas’ cheek. “I would give you the stars if I could, my love.”

Before Legolas could respond, Aragorn leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to his lips. 

Aragorn grinned, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “And now… I have one more surprise for you,” he said, before scooping Legolas into his arms with a joyful laugh.

Legolas gasped in surprise, but before he could even protest, Aragorn had already laid him onto the bedroll, both of them landing in a heap of soft furs. Aragorn’s lips were on Legolas’ almost immediately, pressing a flurry of kisses over his face, his cheeks, his lips.

“Estel,” Legolas gasped, laughing, his hands tangled in Aragorn’s hair. “What are you doing?”

“Worshipping you,” Aragorn murmured between kisses. “Today is your day, my love. I want to remind you how much you mean to me. How much I love you.”

Legolas’ heart melted. Aragorn’s passion was overwhelming. He could feel it in the way Aragorn held him, in the way his lips never left his skin. There was no space between them, no distance. They were one.

“Happy birthday, Legolas,” Aragorn whispered, his lips brushing against Legolas’ ear. “You are the reason my heart beats. I love you more than words can say.”

Legolas smiled, his heart full, as he wrapped his arms around Aragorn’s neck and pulled him closer. “I love you too, Estel. Forever.”

Aragorn’s hands roamed over Legolas’ body, caressing his back, his sides, worshipping every inch of the elf as if he were the most precious thing in Middle-earth. Legolas gasped at each touch, feeling his love for Aragorn grow with every passing second.

The hours passed in a haze of affection. They kissed, they laughed, they held each other close, the world outside forgotten. The day—his birthday—was perfect, not because of the gifts or the gestures, but because they were together.

As the night drew on, Aragorn held Legolas close, pressing one final kiss to his lips. “You make every day worth living, Legolas. You are my heart.”

Legolas smiled, his hand resting on Aragorn’s chest. “And you are mine, Estel. Always.”

And with that, they fell into a peaceful sleep, wrapped in each other’s arms, the world outside continuing on, but inside their shared space, it was only love. 

Chapter Text

Aragorn rarely succumbed to illness. His body had been forged through hardship—countless nights spent in the wilds, wounds stitched together with rough hands, exhaustion met with nothing but stubborn will. He had endured the bitterest of winters, the cruelest of summers, and the wear of endless battles.

But now, lying in the dim light of their makeshift camp, shivering despite the fire’s warmth, he could not pretend.

He was unwell and Legolas knew it.

Aragorn felt the cool press of fingers against his forehead, brushing back sweat-dampened hair. He forced his heavy eyelids open, his vision filled with Legolas—his ever-watchful, ever-unwavering Legolas.

“You must rest, Estel,” the elf murmured, his voice soft yet edged with concern.

Aragorn tried to smile, but even that felt like too much effort. “I’m fine, Legolas. It’s nothing.”

Legolas exhaled. “You are not fine,” he countered.

Aragorn shifted, attempting to prop himself up, but a firm yet gentle hand pressed against his chest, urging him to be still.

Aragorn wanted to protest, to remind Legolas that he had endured worse. He had fought through wounds that should have felled him, walked for days without sleep, starved when food was scarce, pushed his body past the limits of mortal men time and time again.

But Legolas knew all of this and still, the elf would not allow him to suffer in silence.

Aragorn opened his mouth, ready to offer some weak reassurance, but Legolas was already moving. He uncorked a flask of water. Aragorn blinked as Legolas lifted the flask to his lips, his fingers cool where they brushed against his jaw. 

For a moment, he hesitated, irrationally stubborn even now but the look in Legolas’ eyes softened him. There was no demand in that gaze, no expectation of gratitude or repayment. Only care. Devotion. A kind of love that asked for nothing in return.

With a resigned sigh, Aragorn parted his lips, allowing Legolas to tip the flask just enough for him to take a few small sips. The water was cool, crisp, soothing his raw throat. He hadn’t realized how parched he was until now but it was not the water that comforted him most.

It was the way Legolas’ fingers lingered at the nape of his neck. His touch was impossibly gentle, as if he could will strength back into Aragorn with nothing more than his presence.

Aragorn felt something tighten in his chest. How had he ever deserved this?

As Legolas set the flask aside, he reached for a cloth dampened with cool water. Aragorn expected him to simply press it to his forehead, to dab away the sweat clinging to his brow. Instead, Legolas moved with tenderness. His fingers stroking back Aragorn’s sweat-damp hair before guiding the cloth gently across his temple, down the bridge of his nose, along the sharp plane of his cheekbone.

Aragorn exhaled shakily, his breath catching in his throat. This was what undid him. Not battle, not hardship, not wounds too deep to heal. 

But Legolas. Legolas, with his steady hands, his patience, the way he cared for Aragorn as if nothing in the world mattered more than this moment, than him.

Aragorn had spent years fighting, had lived his life believing that love was not a luxury he could afford. He had convinced himself that affection, tenderness, the kind of devotion Legolas showed him now, was something he had no right to ask for but here Legolas was, caring for him without hesitation, without expectation and Aragorn was helpless against it.

The cloth traced over his brow once more, and Aragorn let his heavy eyelids drift shut, not because he was exhausted, but because he wanted to commit this moment to memory.

The press of Legolas’ fingers against his skin. The way his voice murmured reassurances that Aragorn barely heard but felt all the same. The sheer, undeniable love in every movement, every breath, every touch.

When he finally opened his eyes again, Legolas was watching him, his expression caught somewhere between fond amusement and concern.

“You always do this,” Legolas murmured, shaking his head, his voice barely more than a breath. “You act as if you are made of stone, as if illness and exhaustion cannot touch you.”

“You fuss too much,” Aragorn murmured, his voice hoarse.

Legolas let out a soft laugh, but there was no humor in it. Only affection laced with worry. “And you do not fuss enough, meleth-nîn .”

The endearment, my love , settled over Aragorn like a balm. His eyes drifted shut as Legolas continued his quiet caretaking, the rhythmic motions of his hands soothing.

“You do not have to do this,” Aragorn whispered, though his fingers betrayed him as they weakly sought out Legolas’ hand, curling around it.

Legolas did not pull away. Instead, he laced their fingers together, his grip steady.

“I will always do this,” Legolas said simply and there was nothing Aragorn could say to that. So he let himself relax into the warmth of Legolas beside him, the steady comfort of his presence.

He did not know when sleep claimed him, but the last thing he remembered was Legolas’ thumb gently brushing over his knuckles.

By morning, the fever had broken. Aragorn woke feeling weak but no longer burning, the world less hazy, his body lighter and Legolas was still there. Still at his side.

The elf sat cross-legged beside him, his hand still resting in Aragorn’s own, as if he had never once let go.

Aragorn swallowed, the depth of his love for this impossible, infuriating, beautiful elf settling in his chest like a weight he would gladly bear forever.

“You stayed all night,” Aragorn murmured.

Legolas gave him a look that was half amusement, half scolding. “Of course I did.”

Aragorn’s lips curved into the smallest of smiles. “I suppose I should thank you.”

Legolas hummed, a glint flickering in his eyes. “I will accept your gratitude in the form of obedience. Which means you are not leaving this bedroll for the entire day.”

Aragorn let out a soft laugh. “Is that an order, my prince?”

Legolas leaned down, pressing a fleeting, featherlight kiss to Aragorn’s forehead. “It is a promise, meleth-nîn .”

 Aragorn, who had fought and bled and survived more than any man should, let himself be cared for. Because love, he realized, was not just in the battles fought together, but in the quiet moments and he had never been loved like this before.

Chapter Text

Rivendell had seen many things across the ages; wars, councils, great gatherings of wisdom but it had never seen this. The Fellowship was drunk. Spectacularly, catastrophically, idiotically drunk.

The grand halls of Elrond, usually filled with the quiet hum of elven songs and deep discussion, had been transformed into a den of revelry. Empty goblets and overturned bottles littered the courtyard. Somewhere in the distance, Pippin was definitely trying to steal Elrond’s crown, Merry was attempting to ride Bill the pony backward, and Gimli had started loudly singing a Dwarven drinking song about beards. Frodo was half-asleep against Sam, muttering something about how round the moon was, while Boromir, red-faced and swaying, was arguing with himself about Gondor’s military strategy.

Gandalf, the only one still somewhat sober, sat in the corner with an expression of deep regret, puffing his pipe and watching his so-called “heroes” descend into utter ruin but none were quite as drunk as Aragorn and Legolas.

They sat by a low-burning fire, tangled together in a mess of limbs and wine-heavy laughter. A nearly empty flask of miruvor dangled from Aragorn’s fingers, forgotten as Legolas all but draped himself over him, arms wrapped lazily around the Ranger’s shoulders. His chin rested on Aragorn’s head, fingers toying with the dark strands of his hair.

“Mmm,” Legolas hummed, eyes half-lidded. “S’soft… like… like…” He paused. “Like a very fancy horse’s tail.”

Aragorn scoffed, tilting his head back to glare at the Elf, though the effect was ruined by the dopey smile on his face. “Wha’—‘m not a horse. I ‘ave kingly hair.” He tried to flick it dramatically but only succeeded in smacking Legolas in the face.

Legolas gasped, hands flying to his cheek in mock horror. “You wound me, Estel! Struck down by your kingly hair!”

Aragorn frowned, eyes widening as if he had committed an unforgivable crime. “Nooo, no, no, no, no, come back.” He reached out desperately, grabbed the front of Legolas’ tunic, and yanked him forward. He had clearly miscalculated, because they tumbled into the grass. 

Legolas landed sprawled on top of Aragorn, utterly unbothered. “Mmm… comfy,” he mumbled, tucking his face against Aragorn’s neck. 

Aragorn made a pleased noise, arms winding around Legolas’ waist. “Mine now. Can’t move. Stay here.”

Legolas grinned against his skin. “Always wanted t’ be y’rs, Estel.” 

Aragorn stiffened slightly, blinking blearily at the Elf on top of him. His intoxicated mind took a moment to process the words, sluggish but determined. “Y’ did?”

Legolas peeked down at him. “Mmhm.” His fingers traced the edge of Aragorn’s jaw, brushing over the stubble. “But y’ never look at me like I look at you.”

Aragorn frowned deeply, as if personally offended by the statement. “That’s stupid,” he declared. “Look at you all the time. Stupid pretty Elf. Too pretty.” He poked Legolas’ cheek for emphasis. “S’not fair.”

Legolas’ lips curled into a lazy smile. “Y’ think ‘m pretty?”

Aragorn scoffed. “Dumb question. Prettiest Elf. Can’t stop looking. Makes me stupid.” He paused, then squinted. “Wait. Y’ think ‘m pretty too?”

Legolas laughed, fingers sliding into Aragorn’s hair, twirling a loose strand around his finger. “Mmm. Handsome. Strong. Hair’s dumb but in a good way.”

Aragorn preened, beaming like a man who had just been told he was the most handsome king in Middle-earth. “Y’really like my hair?”

Legolas hummed, leaning in  closer. “S’very nice hair.” Before either of them could think, before either of them could register the sheer idiocy of what was about to happen  Aragorn kissed him. It was messy, uncoordinated. Their teeth clashed at first, Aragorn’s nose bumped against Legolas’, but neither of them cared.

Legolas gasped softly against Aragorn’s mouth, and that little sound sent something hot and possessive through the Ranger’s already intoxicated mind.

He deepened the kiss, hand sliding into Legolas’ hair, gripping it as if afraid the Elf might disappear. Legolas made a pleased sound, fingers tugging at Aragorn’s collar, then his tunic, then anywhere he could grab. His other hand roamed over Aragorn, down his chest, gripping at fabric.

Aragorn groaned into his mouth, rolling them over so that his weight pressed Legolas into the grass. His hands explored, fingers skimming the Elf’s waist, the curve of his ribs, the defined muscle beneath his tunic. Legolas arched into his touch, tilting his head back, offering more.

“You taste like wine,” Legolas mumbled against his lips.

“You taste like trouble,” Aragorn murmured back, nipping at Legolas’ lower lip, making him gasp.

Legolas grinned lazily, arms tightening around Aragorn’s neck. “S’that why y’ always avoid me?”

Aragorn made a noise of protest, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to Legolas’ jaw, then the column of his throat. “Don’ avoid you,” he slurred against his skin. “Think ‘bout you all the time.” He trailed his mouth lower, biting gently at Legolas’ collarbone. The Elf whined. Aragorn grinned. From somewhere nearby, Gimli groaned. “By the gods, get a room.”

Boromir turned from his argument, huffing. “Bah! At least they aren’t making a fool of themselves in front of an entire—OH FOR VALAR’S SAKE, PIPPIN, STOP CLIMBING THAT STATUE!”

A loud crash followed. Gandalf exhaled a long-suffering sigh, rubbing his temples. “They’ll regret this tomorrow.”

But tomorrow was tomorrow, and Aragorn was far too busy burying his face in Legolas’ neck to care. Unfortunately, Gandalf did care.

With the air of a man who had lived too long and seen too much, the wizard pushed himself up, crossed the courtyard and without hesitation grabbed Aragorn by the collar and yanked him away from the Elf.

“ACK—!” Aragorn flailed, arms pinwheeling as he was forcibly removed from his warm, clingy Elf cocoon.

Legolas, previously wrapped around Aragorn like a very affectionate vine, let out an outraged whine. “Nooo! M’Ranger!” His arms stretched out dramatically, fingers grasping at air. “Giiive ‘im baaack, old man!”

Aragorn stumbled as Gandalf held him upright by the scruff of his tunic like a particularly unruly cat. He blinked, head spinning from the sudden movement, then narrowed his bleary eyes at the wizard. “Wh—wh— why?” He gestured vaguely toward Legolas, who was still sprawled in the grass, looking tragically abandoned. “Was doin’ important things.”

Gandalf pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’ll thank me tomorrow.” Aragorn scoffed, swaying on his feet. “No, I won’t!” He pointed an accusatory finger at the wizard, though it wobbled uncertainly in the air. “Y’just—jus’ jealous ‘cause y’ don’ have a pretty Elf!”

Legolas, from the ground, cheered. “YEAH! Y’tell ‘im, ‘Gorn!” He tried to push himself up, but his arms immediately gave out and he collapsed back into the grass with a breathless giggle. “Oof—s’fine. ‘M good. Floor’s nice.”

The wizard sighed, rubbing his temples as if physically pained by the situation. “Fine,” he muttered, releasing Aragorn. Aragorn stumbled forward, nearly toppling over Legolas, but caught himself at the last second. His drunken brain had exactly one thought.

Mine. Need t’ carry. Safe. Elf. MINE.

Without hesitation, he grabbed Legolas and hauled him up, throwing him over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

Legolas let out a startled squawk, limbs flailing. “Wha—ack!”

Aragorn grunted in satisfaction, steadying himself. “Gotcha.” He turned to glare at Gandalf, arms wrapped securely around the Elf’s thighs. “MINE.”

Gandalf waved a dismissive hand. “Take him, then. And do try not to drop him.”

Aragorn huffed and turned on his heel, marching away with his Elf prize over his shoulder. Legolas, meanwhile, had dissolved into helpless giggles, squirming half-heartedly. “Esteeel, put me dooown.”

Aragorn tightened his hold. “No.”

Legolas laughed, kicking his legs slightly. “M’not a sack’a potatoes.”

Aragorn snorted. “Nope. Prettier.”

Legolas hummed, clearly pleased. “S’true.”

But then he wiggled again, hands pawing at Aragorn’s back. Aragorn narrowed his eyes. “Stop wigglin’.”

Legolas giggled, kicking again just to be difficult. Aragorn let out an exasperated growl and spanked Legolas’ arse. Legolas yelped, then gasped, going entirely still. “Estel!”

Aragorn huffed. “Stop wigglin’.”

Legolas made a deeply pleased hum. Aragorn smirked, satisfied, and carried his Elf into the night.

Chapter Text

The wind howled through the trees, tugging at the flames of their campfire. It had been building for days, a tension lingering in Aragorn’s silence, in the way he turned away when Legolas reached for him. Legolas had held his tongue. He had waited. But no longer.

“You think yourself the only one who must suffer, Estel?” The words left his lips sharp, cutting through the brittle air between them.

Aragorn did not look at him. He sat on the edge of a fallen log, sharpening his knife with slow, methodical strokes. He exhaled through his nose, his expression unreadable. “Not now, Legolas.”

Legolas bristled. “Yes, now. Because if not now, then when?” His voice was tight with frustration. “How long will you keep pushing me away? How long will you carry this burden alone and refuse to let me bear even a fraction of it?”

Aragorn’s hand tightened around the hilt of his knife. “I do not need your protection.”

“No, but you have it all the same.” Legolas’ jaw clenched. “And yet you will not let me have yours.”

Aragorn scoffed, finally turning to face him. There was something in his gaze, something Legolas had not seen directed at him before. “This again.” His voice was rough, exasperated. “You will not be content until I lay every grief, every fear, at your feet, will you?”

Legolas’ chest ached, but he refused to look away. “That is what love is, Aragorn. Or have you forgotten?”

Aragorn let out a harsh laugh, shaking his head. “Love?” His fingers curled around the knife hilt until his knuckles turned white. “Love is what will break you when I am gone.”

The words struck harder than any blade. Legolas’ breath caught in his throat, his entire body going still. “Is that what you believe? That I should not have chosen you?”

Aragorn stood abruptly, tossing the knife aside. “I think you are a fool for doing so.”

Legolas’ heart twisted. Aragorn was breathing heavily now, his hands clenched at his sides. “You act as though I have asked you to suffer. I have not. It is you who insists on standing beside me. You who refuses to see the inevitable.”

Legolas took a step forward, fury coiling tight in his chest. “And what is the inevitable, Estel? That you will die? That I will live on?” He let out a breathless laugh, full of pain. “You think I do not already know this? You think I have not lain awake at night, dreading the day I must walk this world without you?”

Aragorn turned away sharply. “Then why would you burden yourself with that grief? Why would you chain yourself to a love that can only end in sorrow?”

“Because I love you!” Legolas shouted, his voice cracking.

The silence that followed was deafening. Aragorn’s back remained turned, his head bowed. His shoulders trembled slightly. And then, softer, Legolas whispered, “And I thought you loved me too.”

Aragorn let out a harsh breath, raking his fingers through his hair. “I do.”

“Then why do you insist on fighting against it?”

Aragorn turned back to him then, and the look in his eyes was something Legolas could not bear. “Because I am tired of watching the ones I love suffer for me.” His voice was bitter. “First my mother. Then Halbarad. My men, who have died in my name. And now you.” His breath hitched, his expression dark. “I cannot—” He stopped, shaking his head. “I will not let you suffer because of me.”

Legolas swallowed past the lump in his throat, his hands trembling at his sides. “Then what would you have me do, Estel? Leave you?”

Aragorn did not answer. That silence was answer enough. Legolas let out a breathless, bitter laugh, though it felt more like a sob. “Coward.”

Aragorn’s head snapped up, his expression twisting with something sharp. “What did you say?”

“You heard me. You are a coward, Aragorn. You would rather push me away than face the truth. You would rather suffer alone than risk needing someone.”

Aragorn’s jaw clenched. “I need space.”

Legolas felt something inside him fracture. “Of course you do.”

And then, just like that, Aragorn turned and walked away, disappearing into the trees.

Legolas stood there, his breaths shallow, his hands trembling at his sides. He had half a mind to follow, to force Aragorn to face him, to force him to fight for what they had but he was too angry. Too tired. So instead, he turned away, walking to the cliffs where the sky stretched wide and endless before him

Legolas stood at the cliff’s edge, unmoving, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He did not turn when he heard Aragorn approach, though he knew his presence the moment he stepped near.

“You were right.”

Aragorn’s voice was quiet, hoarse from the weight of all he had said. All he had done.

Legolas’ fingers curled slightly where they rested against his arms. “Which part?” The words were flat.

Aragorn let out a long breath. “All of it.”

Legolas exhaled sharply through his nose. “And yet you still left.”

“I did.” Aragorn stepped closer, his voice heavy with regret. “Because I was a coward. Because I did not know how to face the truth in your words without feeling as though they might break me.”

Legolas finally turned. “And what truth was that?”

“That I have spent so long trying to protect you from the pain of losing me that I never stopped to see how much it hurt you to be pushed away.”

Legolas’ jaw tightened. “It did hurt, Estel. And not just tonight. Every time you held me at arm’s length, every time you turned away instead of reaching for me. I felt it. And I let it fester because I thought, if I was patient, you would see me. That you would let me in.”

Aragorn let out a breath, running a hand down his face. “I know. I see it now. And I am sorry. I never wanted to wound you, but I did. And I did it in the cruelest way possible.” His voice cracked. “I called you a fool.”

Legolas’ throat tightened. “Yes. You did.”

Aragorn’s eyes darkened with pain. “I did not mean it.”

“Didn’t you?” Legolas asked, his voice quiet. “Because I think you did. In that moment, you meant every word. And that is what I cannot forget.”

Before Legolas could continue, Aragorn’s hands were on him. One curling around the back of his neck, the other pressing against his waist and then he kissed him. 

Legolas let out a shuddering breath as he melted into him, his own hands gripping Aragorn’s tunic tightly, as if to hold him there, to keep him from ever leaving again.

Aragorn pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against Legolas’, his breaths uneven. “I will not run from you again,” he murmured.

Legolas closed his eyes, letting the words settle. Letting himself believe them. “See that you do not,” he whispered, before pulling Aragorn into another kiss, this one softer. 

No more walls. No more distance. Only love. Only them.

Chapter Text

Aragorn sat in the dimly lit chambers, the warmth of the fire casting soft shadows against the stone walls. The world outside was hushed, still, as though even the winds had decided to rest. The first hint of dawn was barely a whisper on the horizon. Aragorn felt a peace he had not known in years. The weight of the crown, the burdens of kingship, all seemed distant, faint echoes of a life he was still learning to navigate. And through it all, Legolas had been his constant, his companion, his heart.

It was strange, he thought, the way time had unfolded between them. They had shared countless hours in battle, their lives entwined in the most intense of ways. They had spoken of fears, of hopes, of memories long past, and yet, in all their years, he had never truly seen Legolas at rest. Never had he witnessed the elf in such a vulnerable moment.

His gaze softened as he looked at the elf, who lay beside him on the bed. Legolas’ features, usually so alert, now appeared softened in sleep. His brow, so often furrowed in concentration or concern, was now relaxed. His lips, which Aragorn had kissed countless times, were now relaxed in a peaceful, silent smile. The slight rise and fall of his chest as he breathed seemed to fill the room with comfort. 

Legolas’ hair, untamed as ever, lay scattered across the pillow, strands catching the firelight in a soft glow. Aragorn’s heart clenched at the sight. How many times had they fought side by side, their swords raised against the darkness, their bond strengthened in battle? How many times had they exchanged looks that spoke volumes, words unspoken between them, yet both knowing the depth of their connection? But this stillness was different. It was trust. Pure and simple.

For the first time, Aragorn allowed himself to truly watch Legolas, to memorize the way he looked in the quiet moments. His breath caught in his throat, a quiet ache settling in his chest. This was the part of Legolas that Aragorn had never fully realized he had been missing.

His fingers itched to reach out, to touch him. Slowly, as if not wanting to disturb the delicate scene before him, Aragorn moved closer. He reached out, brushing a stray lock of Legolas’ hair from his face. His fingers trailed over the soft skin of his forehead, the faintest touch, but it was enough.

In his sleep, Legolas stirred slightly, a soft sigh escaping his lips. Aragorn froze for a moment, thinking that perhaps he had disturbed him, but then Legolas simply shifted, curling more deeply into the blankets, his hand stretching out, instinctively seeking warmth in his sleep.

Without a second thought, Aragorn slid closer to the elf. He watched as Legolas’ hand, still stretched out, gently brushed against his. The contact was almost accidental, but it felt like a bridge between their hearts. Aragorn closed the small distance between them, his fingers softly intertwining with Legolas’ hand.

The warmth of Legolas’ skin against his felt like a balm to Aragorn’s soul. He could not remember the last time he had felt this kind of peace. Everything about this moment was perfect in its simplicity. The world outside could burn for all he cared; as long as Legolas was here, beside him, it didn’t matter.

Their dog, a large, shaggy creature with golden fur, sighed and stretched out beside them, its large head resting between its paws. The soft snoring of the creature was a reminder of how much their little family had grown. The dog had become a constant in their lives, a comforting presence that was as much a part of their family as anything else. It lay curled up at the edge of the bed, its tail occasionally flicking in its sleep, content and undisturbed.

Aragorn, for a moment, allowed his eyes to flutter shut, savoring the moment. He could feel Legolas’ warmth beside him, the soft rise and fall of his breath, the steady pulse beneath his fingers where their hands met. Everything felt right in this moment, as if the universe had finally found a small, perfect place for them. He had fought for this peace. He had fought for the world, for the future but now, in this small corner of it, he found himself grateful for the quiet moments that filled his heart more than any victory ever could.

His heart swelled with something indescribable, a kind of love that went beyond mere affection. It was the kind of love that was both tender and fierce, patient and unyielding. It was the kind of love that could withstand anything, whether the darkness of the world or the weight of time itself.

Aragorn moved again, his lips brushing gently over Legolas’ temple, a soft kiss. The elf shifted slightly, murmuring in his sleep, his body instinctively leaning toward Aragorn’s warmth. The gesture was so small, yet it sent a ripple of joy through Aragorn’s heart. It was a wordless acknowledgment of their bond.

For a moment, Aragorn lay there, content, with Legolas in his arms, his fingers tracing the contours of the elf’s hand. He could feel the steady beat of Legolas’ heart beneath his touch, a rhythm that was so familiar to him and with that simple thought, a tear threatened to slip from his eye, though he did nothing to stop it. He wasn’t ashamed of it. This was his life now. This soft, peaceful love that existed not in grand gestures, but in the small, everyday moments.

In the stillness, with the fire softly crackling in the background and the dog curled up at their feet, Aragorn realized that this was enough. No crown, no battle, no victory could ever mean as much as this. The knowledge that, no matter what came next, he and Legolas would always find their way back to each other. And that, in the quiet moments of peace, they had already won.

Chapter Text

The stars stretched above the small village, their glow casting a shimmer over the festival. Laughter and music wove through the air, wrapping around the people twirling and clapping in the open square. Lanterns swung from wooden posts, their light flickering against the painted masks and embroidered garments of the dancers. The scent of roasted chestnuts and spiced wine curled through the air, mingling with the warmth of summer.

Aragorn stood at the edge of it all, the hum of life and celebration unfamiliar yet intoxicating. He exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of duty slip from his shoulders, if only for tonight. He had spent so long carrying the burdens of kingship, of war, of destiny but here, in a village where no one called him King, he was simply Aragorn.

And that was precisely why they had come. 

It had taken careful planning, at least on Aragorn’s part. Legolas had merely laughed when he suggested sneaking away for the evening, calling it unnecessary, as if slipping past the ever-watchful eyes of the court was as easy as breathing. Perhaps for an elf, it was but Aragorn had spent days drowning in meetings, feasts, and matters of state, unable to take a single step without being trailed by advisors and nobles all eager to claim a moment of his time. He needed this. They both did.

So, beneath the cover of dusk, they had left the White City behind, donning simple tunics and well-worn cloaks, blending into the travelers heading down the road. No crowns, no gilded robes, no titles. Just themselves. 

Now, standing at the edge of the festival, he marveled at how easily they fit in among the villagers. Just another pair of wanderers drawn in by the music and the promise of a night free from obligation. Beside him, Legolas gazed at the dancers, his sharp features softened by the lantern light. His lips were parted slightly, and there was a longing in his eyes. It was not a longing for battle, nor for duty. It was something simpler. A desire to be part of this moment, to let go. To live.

“Shall we join them?” Legolas asked suddenly. He turned to Aragorn, tilting his head slightly. The invitation was playful, but the yearning in his gaze struck deeper.

Aragorn hesitated, glancing down at his own hands, calloused from a sword, not made for the delicate grace of dance. He was a warrior, a ranger, a king but not a dancer. Still, as he looked into Legolas’ eyes, he realized this moment was theirs alone. 

He reached out, his fingers curling around Legolas’ hand. “I would be honored.” 

Legolas’ smile was soft as he led Aragorn toward the dancers. The music swelled around them, a joyous, lilting melody played by village musicians on wooden flutes and lively fiddles. The beat was uneven at first beneath their feet, a rhythm unfamiliar to warriors more accustomed to marching into battle than stepping into a dance.

Aragorn fumbled, stepping left when he should have stepped right, nearly colliding into Legolas. The elf laughed, his eyes bright with amusement. Aragorn grinned, reaching for him instinctively, but in doing so, he tangled their arms together. For a brief moment, they stumbled, their bodies pressed close as they tried to untangle themselves.

Legolas shook his head, laughter spilling from his lips. “You are hopeless,” he teased. Aragorn chuckled. “I never claimed otherwise.” He took a step back. “But I am nothing if not a quick learner.”

Legolas arched a delicate brow, challenging. “Then keep up, Estel.”

The name, spoken with such affection, sent a warmth through Aragorn's chest that had nothing to do with the summer night. He tightened his grip on Legolas’ hand, determination sparking in his eyes as he let himself fully embrace the moment.

They tried again, still awkward at first, but this time, Aragorn let go of his hesitation. He let himself listen, not to the music, but to Legolas. The way he moved, the way his body swayed with the rhythm. And then they found their rhythm together.

Their laughter softened into something breathless, something exhilarating. They moved faster now, Aragorn spinning Legolas unexpectedly, earning a surprised but delighted gasp from the elf. Legolas retaliated by pulling Aragorn closer- Aragorn grinned, breathless and happy in a way he had not felt in years. Not since long before the war, before the weight of destiny had settled onto his shoulders. 

“You are enjoying this,” Legolas observed, amusement in his voice as they stepped and turned in perfect harmony now.

Aragorn let out a contented sigh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “How could I not?” His gaze softened as he looked at Legolas, as if truly seeing him in this moment. The way his golden hair caught the glow of the lanterns, the way his eyes shone with a happiness so pure it made Aragorn’s heart ache.

They no longer followed the lively tempo of the music but instead moved to something entirely their own. Their foreheads pressed together, their breath mingling in the warm summer air. Aragorn felt the steady, grounding presence of Legolas, his hand firm against his own, his warmth seeping through the thin fabric of his tunic.

For a long moment, they simply stood there, swaying to the fading echoes of the last song. Then, softly, Legolas whispered, “Thank you.”

Aragorn pulled back just enough to look at him, his brow furrowing in gentle curiosity. “For what?”

“For this,” Legolas said, his voice quieter now, carrying something deeper than just gratitude. “For bringing us here. For reminding me of joy.” His fingers tightened slightly where they rested against Aragorn’s. “It has been so long since I have felt this… free.”

Aragorn’s heart clenched. He knew what Legolas meant. The weight of war had lingered on them both, even in victory. They had spent so long fighting, sacrificing, enduring. Moments like this, moments of simple happiness, were rare.

“I would do anything for you,” Aragorn murmured, brushing his thumb over the back of Legolas’ hand. “You need only ask.”

With an amused hum, Legolas leaned in. Their lips met, but it was not quite a kiss because the moment they touched, both of them were grinning too much. Aragorn felt Legolas’ laughter against his mouth, and he couldn’t stop his own smile from breaking the moment apart.

Legolas chuckled, pulling back just enough to press their foreheads together again, his eyes sparkling. “You are impossible,” he murmured.

Aragorn laughed, his arms looping loosely around Legolas’ waist. “And yet you love me still.”

“Fool that I am,” Legolas teased. Before Aragorn could think of a witty reply, Legolas suddenly grabbed his hand and spun him, completely unexpected, completely ungraceful. Aragorn stumbled with a startled laugh, barely catching himself before Legolas pulled him back in, their laughter mixing with the music still playing around them.

“You did that on purpose,” Aragorn accused.

“Perhaps,” Legolas admitted. Aragorn narrowed his eyes in mock suspicion but let himself be drawn back into the dance. This time, it was reckless, untamed, a game between them rather than a measured waltz. They twirled each other with abandon, stepping into and out of each other’s arms, neither caring about form or elegance, only about the joy crackling between them.

Every few turns, Legolas would tug Aragorn close and steal another kiss, never lingering, never letting it deepen, just a quick, playful brush of lips before he would spin away again. Aragorn, laughing, caught on to the game and retaliated in kind, pulling Legolas in unexpectedly, kissing him soundly before letting him go.

The world was firelight and music, the scent of summer and laughter on the wind. And in that moment, Aragorn had never been happier.

Chapter Text

The halls of Minas Tirith gleamed in the light of the setting sun, banners rippling in the evening breeze. The court was alive with laughter, the scent of wine and candle smoke curling through the air as the envoys of Mirkwood mingled with Gondor’s nobility.

Aragorn stood apart from it, watching.

His gaze was fixed on Legolas, who stood with an Elven lord, elegant, silver-tongued, and far more like Legolas than Aragorn would ever be. They spoke in swift, fluid Elvish, their voices weaving together like a song. The Elf leaned in as he spoke, laughter soft between them, his hand brushing Legolas’ arm in a gesture so familiar it made Aragorn’s jaw clench.

It was foolish, this feeling curling in his chest. He had woken that morning with Legolas in his arms, their bodies tangled in the silken sheets of his chamber, Legolas’ hands mapping his skin with a devotion that should have been enough to banish all doubt. He had claimed him there, whispered his name against his throat, kissed the curve of his ear and felt Legolas shudder beneath him and yet. Yet, as he watched them now, he felt something coil in his gut.

Legolas looked at ease, speaking in a language that flowed like water—too quick, too elegant for Aragorn to fully grasp. He belonged to that world, a world of light and timeless laughter, of memories that stretched beyond the reach of men and beside him stood the Elven lord, tall and fair, speaking in the same fluid tongue, sharing an ease and understanding Aragorn could never claim.

Aragorn was no Elf. He was mortal, rough-edged, bound to the weight of years that would never touch Legolas and though Legolas had chosen him, though they had lain together almost ever night since the Fellowship, Aragorn could not shake the thought—was it enough? When Legolas could have this, someone who spoke his language, who would never age, who moved as he did, laughed as he did. 

His hands tightened at his sides.

Legolas noticed. He always noticed. Their gazes met across the room, and something in Legolas’ expression softened but he did not move to break away from his conversation, and Aragorn, stubborn and prideful, refused to be the one to interrupt. Instead, he turned away.

Later, when the revelry had faded and the halls of the citadel were quiet, Aragorn sat in the dim light of his chambers, staring into the fire. He did not hear the door open, but he felt Legolas’ presence before the Elf even spoke.

“You are quiet.”

Aragorn did not turn to face him. “You seemed… well entertained.” His voice was neutral.

Legolas blinked, then a slow, knowing smile tugged at his lips. “You are jealous,” he murmured, amusement laced in his voice.

Aragorn exhaled sharply, finally meeting his gaze. “It is nothing.”

Legolas studied him,. “You lie poorly, meleth-nîn.”

Aragorn’s jaw tightened. “Do I?” He leaned back in his chair, forcing his voice into something cool and indifferent. “You were speaking to him as though no one else in the hall existed.”

Legolas’ brow arched slightly, but there was no guilt in his gaze, only understanding. “I have known Lord Celerion for centuries. We fought together beneath Greenwood’s boughs before you were even born.”

Aragorn’s fingers curled against the wooden arm of his chair. “Yes,” he said, bitterness creeping into his voice. “He is of your world, is he not?”

Legolas tilted his head. “And you believe that makes him closer to me than you are?”

Aragorn looked away, his throat tight. “He understands things I never will. He moves as you do, speaks as you do. And I…” He let out a breath, shaking his head. “I am only a man.”

Legolas sighed, stepping closer. “You are a fool, Estel.”

Aragorn huffed a humorless laugh. “You are not the first to say so.”

Legolas’ smile only deepened. He stepped forward, closing the space between them and then, without hesitation, he took Aragorn’s hand and pressed it over his own heart.

“You are my choice, Estel,” he said, voice quieter now, no trace of teasing left. “There is no world, mortal or immortal, where that will change.”

Why?” He hated the way his voice caught, how much he revealed in that single word. “Why would you bind yourself to a man who will age and die while you remain?”

Legolas did not answer immediately, and Aragorn pressed on, the flood of doubt breaking free from where he had tried to bury it.

“I will grow old, Legolas,” he said, voice rough. “One day, my hair will turn white, my hands will shake, my body will fail me. I will be wrinkled and worn, nothing like the man I am now. And you—” He swallowed hard. “You will be the same as you are tonight, unchanged, untouched by time.”

Legolas’ expression softened, but Aragorn wasn’t done. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

“And in bed—” He let out a bitter breath. “There will come a day when I cannot give you what you need, when I am no longer strong enough to love you as I should. What then?” He turned away, jaw clenched, voice barely above a whisper. “What if you seek another? What if you realize you should have chosen someone who will not wither beneath your touch?”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and thick. Then Legolas spoke.  “Because you are worth every moment.” He tilted his head, studying Aragorn as if seeing through every insecurity, every doubt. “You speak of time as if it is a curse. Do you not see? You are the one who teaches me to cherish it.”

Aragorn swallowed hard. The warmth of Legolas’ hand against his own, the steady heartbeat beneath his palm, anchored him.

“And,” Legolas added, a glimmer of mischief returning to his eyes, “if you truly believe that you won’t be able to satisfy me in bed, then you are a fool indeed.”

A flicker of heat licked through Aragorn’s jealousy, possessiveness overtaking doubt. He gripped Legolas’ waist, pulling him close in a way that left no room for argument.

Legolas only smiled against his lips, and with a whisper of breath, murmured, “Let me remind you.”

Aragorn, still learning to trust that love could be freely given, let himself believe.

Chapter Text

The sun filtered through the canopy above their cottage, dappling the line of wet laundry Aragorn was hanging. A breeze tugged at the linens, making them flap. It was quiet, the kind of peace Aragorn had never dared to imagine in his youth and certainly not while growing up in Rivendell, nor later, wandering under shadowed skies but here, in their little home tucked away between forest and hill, peace had found him.

He reached up to pin another shirt, then paused to glance behind him.

Legolas was sitting cross-legged in the grass, hair unbound and half-falling into his face as he folded dry clothes. His movements were fluid. He didn’t notice Aragorn watching. Not at first but then his lips curved into a smile, and without looking up, he murmured, “You missed a pin.”

“No, I didn’t,” Aragorn replied, smirking.

“Yes, you did.”

Aragorn looked. He had, in fact, missed a pin. The edge of the tunic flopped over with the wind, barely secured. With a small grunt, he fixed it, then turned back to the basket.

Then came the flick. A damp cloth struck his back. Aragorn stilled. Slowly, very slowly, he turned his head. Legolas was folding a shirt like nothing had happened, though the corners of his mouth were twitching.

“You really want to start that war, princeling?” Aragorn asked, narrowing his eyes. Legolas finally looked up, and the grin he wore was unrepentant. 

Aragorn walked toward him with the sort of calm that Legolas knew meant danger. “You’re going to regret that.”

“Oh, am I?” Legolas said and hurled another cloth directly at Aragorn’s chest.

It hit squarely. Aragorn stood there, blinking down at it. Then he dropped it and lunged.

Legolas shrieked, actually shrieked, and scrambled up, dodging behind the laundry line. Aragorn gave chase, laughing as he grabbed a towel and swung it through the air like a weapon. The cloths hanging on the line fluttered wildly as they darted between them.

“You’re going to wrinkle everything!” Legolas called out.

“You already did when you attacked me!”

“It was a gentle flick!”

“I’ll show you gentle—”

Aragorn caught him near the water barrel, tackling him into the tall grass. They tumbled together, limbs tangled, breathless with laughter. Legolas tried to wiggle away, but Aragorn wrapped his arms around him and held him close, burying his face in Legolas’s neck.

“You smell like lavender and sun,” Aragorn murmured.

“That’s because you made me carry the laundry soap.”

Aragorn chuckled and kissed his jaw. “I’d do it again.”

“You’re a menace,” Legolas muttered, though he tilted his head to give Aragorn better access.

“I’m your menace,” Aragorn said softly, pressing kisses along his cheek, his nose, the edge of his brow.

Legolas went quiet then, smiling faintly, eyes fluttering closed. Aragorn shifted to hover just above him, brushing strands from his lover’s face. “You’re too beautiful to be folding shirts,” he whispered.

“And yet I do it better than you,” Legolas murmured.

Aragorn laughed and leaned in to kiss him. It was slow, lingering, familiar. They’d kissed a thousand times, but it never dulled. Aragorn’s fingers gently curled at Legolas’s waist as he deepened the kiss for a moment before pulling back just enough to rest their foreheads together.

“You make even laundry into something worth remembering,” he said softly.

Legolas opened his eyes, smile widening. “Perhaps. Or perhaps you are just easily distracted.”

“I like being distracted by you,” Aragorn said, running his fingers through Legolas’s hair. “Honestly, I don’t care if we get anything done today.”

“That’s a dangerous offer. I might hold you to it.” Aragorn kissed the tip of his nose. “Do.”

They lay in the grass a few more moments, Aragorn tracing circles on Legolas’s hip, the breeze playing with the hem of his shirt. Eventually, Legolas groaned. “If we don’t finish soon, the linens will dry in the wrong shape.”

Aragorn rolled to his side, chin propped on his hand. “Is that truly a tragedy?”

“For someone with your folding skills? Yes.”

“I am adequate at folding,” Aragorn said with mock offense.

“You’re a disaster. I had to refold everything last week after you touched it.”

“You are exaggerating.”

“Am I?” Legolas raised an eyebrow and sat up, brushing grass from his leggings. “Remember the shirt you folded inside out and upside down?”

Aragorn winced. “It was experimental.”

“It was chaos.”

Aragorn stood and offered his hand. “Fine. I’ll let you fold.”

Legolas took it, letting Aragorn pull him to his feet and into his arms again. Legolas kissed him lightly. 

They returned to the task, side by side, with Aragorn surprisingly focused for about five minutes. Then his hand brushed Legolas’s hip again. Then again. Then again.

“Aragorn,” Legolas warned, not looking up from a folded tunic.

“Yes?”

“You are distracting me.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Aragorn said innocently, now openly hugging him from behind. “I’m offering encouragement.”

“I swear, you are worse than the wind,” Legolas said, though he leaned into the embrace.

“You love me.”

“I do,” Legolas said, without hesitation.

Aragorn kissed his temple. “Then let me fold one. Just one.”

“Fine.” Legolas handed him a shirt. “But if you mess it up, you’re refolding.”

“I accept the challenge.”

He tried. He truly did. But Legolas burst out laughing the moment Aragorn held up his attempt.

“That’s not even a fold. That’s a bundle.”

Aragorn sighed. “I got distracted again.”

Legolas looked at him with affection. “I know.”

They laughed, pressed together beneath sun-warmed linens, the scent of lavender on their clothes and the joy of shared laundry. The chores could wait.

Chapter Text

The door slammed shut behind them with a hard thud, rain battering the roof. Aragorn leaned against the door for a moment, breathing heavily, his hair soaked and water dripping from his cloak onto the wooden floor. His boots squelched with each step. Across the room, Legolas was already moving toward the fireplace.

Neither of them spoke. Legolas knelt by the hearth and began to coax a flame to life with flint and kindling nearby. His movements were quick and efficient. He didn’t seem cold, even though he was soaked through. Aragorn watched the way his fingers moved. Watched the water glisten across his skin when he pushed his hair out of his face.

Finally, the fire caught. Legolas sat back on his heels, staring at it for a moment before standing. Without a word, he peeled off his outer tunic, soaked and heavy, and dropped it to the floor.

Aragorn tried not to stare, but his eyes didn’t listen. “You’re staring,” Legolas said, voice calm, not accusatory.

Aragorn blinked and looked away too quickly. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Didn’t say you couldn’t,” Legolas said, shrugging out of his underlayer. “Just said you were.”

Aragorn shifted, unsure what to do with his hands. He was cold, wet, and every part of him was uncomfortably aware of how quiet the cabin was. How close they were. How bare Legolas was.

“You should take your cloak off,” Legolas said, not looking at him. “You’ll freeze otherwise.”

Aragorn hesitated, then unclasped his cloak and pulled it off. The chill hit harder for a moment before the fire’s warmth reached him. His tunic clung to him, wet and heavy.

“Sit by the fire,” Legolas added, now working on unlacing his boots. “You’re dripping all over the floor.”

Aragorn didn’t respond, just moved closer to the fire and dropped to the rug beside it. Legolas sat down a moment later, cross-legged, now stripped to his linen trousers. His hair hung in damp strands around his shoulders.

They sat there in silence, watching the flames. Aragorn didn’t glance sideways at him again. He stared, openly this time.

“You’re still doing it,” Legolas said,.

“I know,” Aragorn admitted. Legolas turned his head and met his eyes. “Why?”

Aragorn didn’t answer right away. He knew better than to lie. “Because you look like that. And because I’m tired of pretending I haven’t noticed.”

Legolas studied him for a moment. “You’ve been noticing for a while.”

“I have.”

“Have you always stared when I wasn’t looking?”

Aragorn smirked. “Sometimes when you were looking.”

Legolas gave a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You’re brave all of a sudden.”

“Blame the storm. Or the fact we’re alone.” Aragorn shifted, leaned back on his hands. “Or the fact I’ve run out of excuses.”

Legolas tilted his head. “Excuses for what?”

“For why I’ve kept my distance.”

Legolas leaned forward slightly, his gaze dropping to Aragorn’s lips for just a moment. He didn’t look away. “And are you still keeping it?”

Aragorn’s breath caught in his chest. He shook his head. “Not right now.”

Another silence. Legolas reached for his damp hair, trying to untangle a knot near his shoulder. Aragorn watched his fingers move again. Aragorn’s mouth felt dry. “I keep thinking about touching you.”

Legolas paused, turning his head just enough to meet Aragorn’s eyes. His voice was low, teasing. “Then why haven’t you?”

Aragorn swallowed. “I don’t know if I’m allowed.”

Legolas’ lips quirked into a sly grin. “Why wouldn’t you be?” His eyes dropped again, lingering on Aragorn’s chest, then his lips. “You’ve been staring long enough. I think I’ve made it clear that I don’t mind.”

That was it. Something snapped inside Aragorn. The way Legolas’ voice dropped, the subtle invitation in his words was too much to resist.

He moved. Legolas didn’t pull away when Aragorn leaned in. He tilted his head slightly as their faces came close. Aragorn waited for a sign, a breath, anything. He got a quiet “Well?” from Legolas that made him snap.

He kissed him. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t slow. It was weeks, months, of holding back. Legolas’s hand grabbed the front of Aragorn’s tunic, pulling him closer, wet fabric clinging to both of them.

They kissed again, harder. Aragorn climbed into his lap, not caring how desperate it looked. Their mouths moved without finesse, teeth clashing once, but neither cared.

Legolas pulled back for a breath, lips swollen, his voice lower than usual. “You’ve been holding that in.”

Aragorn nodded, breathing heavily. “Too long.”

“You always look so composed.” Legolas’ lips brushed against his ear. “Maybe it’s time I get to see that other side of you.”

“Maybe it is,” Aragorn grunted, his hand running down Legolas’ back. He kissed Legolas again, deeper this time, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them.

Legolas responded, his fingers tugging at Aragorn’s wet tunic. “I’ve been waiting for this, you know. Waiting for you to stop being so careful. It’s been driving me mad.” He laughed softly. “Tell me you have wanted this too.”

“I have,” Aragorn breathed out, barely controlling himself. “I’ve wanted it for so long it’s—”

Legolas caught his lips again, cutting him off, his mouth hungry. He groaned, pressing against Aragorn, his chest bare against Aragorn’s. “Then why didn’t you do something about it?”

Aragorn’s hands moved faster now, his grip desperate. “I don’t know. I—” He cursed under his breath. He was barely thinking anymore, only acting on instinct.

Clothes were discarded in a frenzy, limbs tangled together. Their hands didn’t pause. Every touch felt like it was meant to happen. They moved on the rug, tangled in sweat, the fire barely casting light on their frantic movements.

Legolas let out a soft laugh between kisses, a breathless. “Finally,” he whispered, his voice dripping with satisfaction, “you’ve snapped.”

Aragorn’s heart was pounding in his chest. “I—don’t—” His words were swallowed by Legolas’ mouth, his tongue, his hands that were everywhere, pulling him closer, deeper. They didn’t stop. The storm outside raged but neither of them cared.

Afterward, they lay there, still tangled in each other. The fire had burned low. The storm outside still raged, but it felt distant now.

Legolas didn’t move. He simply pressed a kiss to Aragorn’s chest and murmured, “That was better than I imagined.” 

Aragorn smiled, his mind quiet for the first time in a long while. 

Chapter Text

The warmth from the fire flickered around the room, casting shadows on the walls. Outside, the night was calm, but inside their castle, all that mattered was the comfort they had found in each other’s presence. Aragorn and Legolas sat close, their bodies naturally drawing towards one another, as if there was something between them that never let them stray too far.

Legolas leaned his head gently against Aragorn’s chest, feeling the familiar warmth and strength of him beneath the fabric of his tunic. Aragorn’s hand slid into Legolas’s hair, his fingers threading through the soft strands with tenderness. Legolas closed his eyes, enjoying the simple touch, the quiet rhythm of Aragorn’s hand moving through his hair.

The book was open between them, its pages worn from use. Aragorn began reading aloud, the words flowing as he spoke of ancient tales of adventure and heroism.

“‘And so, with the rising sun, the hero rode forth on his steed, his heart burning with the knowledge of the quest ahead. The winds of the east blew through his hair, carrying with it the scent of adventure and danger,’” Aragorn read, his voice low and soothing.

Legolas let out a soft sigh, his head nestling deeper into the warmth of Aragorn’s chest. The sound of Aragorn’s voice, steady and filled, made Legolas’s heart swell. There was something about these moments that felt like home, something more meaningful than any grand adventure.

“I love this story,” Legolas murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper as he tilted his head up slightly to look at Aragorn.

Aragorn’s gaze softened, and he met Legolas’s eyes for a brief moment, a soft smile curling on his lips. His thumb brushed over Legolas’s cheek, his hand never leaving the warmth of his hair. “I know,” he said gently, the affection in his voice undeniable. “But I love hearing your voice even more.”

Legolas chuckled. He rested his hand lightly on Aragorn’s chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath the fabric of his tunic. “You flatter me, my king.”

Aragorn leaned down then, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Legolas’s head, his lips lingering there as he pulled him closer. “I speak only the truth,” Aragorn whispered.

They fell into a comfortable silence, the words of the story drifting between them, but neither of them paying much attention to the pages. Aragorn continued reading, but it felt as though the book had become a mere background hum. 

“‘But the hero’s heart was not alone in its yearning. He knew the journey ahead would take him to distant lands, to places he could never dream of, where dark forces lurked in the shadows.’”

Legolas closed his eyes again, letting the sound of Aragorn’s voice wash over him. One of Aragorn’s hands moved from his hair to gently trace the line of his jaw, a touch that made Legolas’s breath hitch ever so slightly. He smiled softly, his fingers finding their way back to Aragorn’s chest, where he could feel the warmth of him, the life in his every movement.

“You know,” Legolas said softly, his voice barely louder than a breath, “this story reminds me of us. The hero who leaves everything behind for something greater, not knowing what the journey will bring.”

Aragorn’s hand in his hair paused, and he tilted his head down to kiss Legolas’s forehead, his lips lingering there for a moment longer than necessary. When he pulled away, his gaze was soft. “Perhaps,” he said quietly. “But unlike the hero in the story, I’ve already found everything I need.”

Legolas’s heart gave a small, unsteady beat at the sincerity in Aragorn’s voice. He turned slightly in Aragorn’s embrace, his hand gently cupping Aragorn’s face. “And what is that?” Legolas asked, searching Aragorn’s eyes for the answer.

Aragorn smiled softly. “I have you,” he said simply, as though that was the only answer he needed to give. “And I will always have you.”

Legolas leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to Aragorn’s lips, feeling the warmth of the man’s affection flood him. Aragorn responded immediately, deepening the kiss, pulling Legolas closer as his hand slid around his back, holding him with a possessiveness that made Legolas’s heart swell.

The kiss was slow and tender, the kind that spoke of moments shared between two souls who understood each other in ways words could never capture. It was full of the love and trust they had built over the years. When they pulled apart, both of them were breathless, their foreheads resting together as they shared the same air.

“I think the book can wait,” Legolas murmured, his fingers tracing over Aragorn’s chest again.

Aragorn chuckled softly, his hands roaming gently over Legolas’s back. “I think it has already waited long enough,” he said with a teasing smile.

Legolas laughed, but it was soft, filled with affection. “You are impossible,” he teased, but there was no real heat in the words, only tenderness.

“And yet you love me,” Aragorn replied with a grin, kissing Legolas’s forehead again.

“I do,” Legolas said, his voice filled with quiet certainty. “More than I ever thought I could love anyone.”

Aragorn’s smile softened, and he pulled Legolas even closer, if that was possible. “I feel the same,” he whispered.

For a long while, they just sat there, lost in the closeness of each other. The book was forgotten now, the fire crackling in the hearth the only sound besides their shared breaths. The night stretched on, but neither of them cared about time. There was only this moment, and it was enough.

Aragorn’s fingers returned to their gentle stroking through Legolas’s hair, and Legolas closed his eyes, letting Aragorn’s presence surround him completely. In this quiet, perfect moment, there was no world beyond their castle, no adventures left to face. There was only the two of them, together and that, Legolas thought with a quiet smile, was all he would ever need.

Chapter Text

Legolas sighed softly, running his fingers through the dark waves of Aragorn’s hair.

“You did not brush it again,” he murmured. His fingers caught on another knot and he winced, though Aragorn didn’t seem to notice. The man sat with his back to him, cross-legged on the edge of his bedroll, blinking sleepily at the dying embers of the campfire.

“I was tired,” Aragorn mumbled, voice rasped with weariness. “We were chased by wargs until moonrise, and Gimli’s snoring is hardly restful.”

“That is not an excuse,” Legolas said, pulling a comb from the small pouch he always carried. “You are a ranger, not a beast of the wild.” Aragorn let out a low chuckle. “You wound me.”

“No, your hair does, and you’ll be scalped by it one day if I do not tend to it myself.” He separated a knot near the base of Aragorn’s neck, his slender fingers working with precision and patience. Aragorn hissed softly under his breath.

“You should consider cutting it,” Legolas said. Aragorn tensed. “Don’t jest about such things.” Legolas rolled his eyes. “Then brush it.”

Another knot, another wince. Legolas let out a long breath, fingers stilling for a moment. “I warned you last night, did I not? I said if you went to sleep without combing it, you would pay for it in the morning.”

“It isn’t morning,” Aragorn grumbled.

Legolas tugged gently, but not without intention. Aragorn jerked slightly and muttered something under his breath in Westron.

“That is not Elvish,” Legolas said. “And I hope you are not insulting me.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Aragorn said through gritted teeth.

Legolas hummed something low, his fingers resuming their work. “Your hair is like bramble,” he said. “You walk into windstorms and lie in dirt, and then you look surprised when your hair knots itself into battle formations.”

Aragorn grunted. “It’s part of my charm.”

“It is a menace,” Legolas replied fondly. There was a pause.

“You like tending to it.” A smile ghosted over Legolas’ lips. He didn’t deny it.

Silence fell again, broken only by the soft drag of the comb through hair and the occasional murmured word in Elvish as Legolas worked through stubborn knots. His hands moved with practice. He had done this many times now, whenever they had a moment to rest. He liked the quietness of it. The way Aragorn stilled under his touch, shoulders relaxing, head tilting slightly when the elf’s fingers brushed the nape of his neck.

“You hum,” Aragorn said suddenly. Legolas blinked. “What?”

“When you braid,” Aragorn said. “You always hum.” He hadn’t noticed. A soft tune, some half-forgotten melody from his childhood in Mirkwood, had been slipping from his lips without thought. “Do you mind?”

“No,” Aragorn said. “It’s comforting.”

Legolas stilled for a moment, his fingers resting gently in his lover’s hair. He closed his eyes. This was why he did it. Not simply to avoid tangles or keep Aragorn looking presentable, though both were valid reasons, but because of this closeness. The kind that felt like safety.

“I will braid it differently tonight,” Legolas said after a pause. “A hunter’s weave. It suits you.”

“I trust your hands,” Aragorn said, and tilted his head back so slightly it brushed Legolas’ chest. “They are more skilled than mine in such matters.”

“You say that only because the last time you tried to braid mine, I had to untangle it with a dagger,” Legolas said with a faint smile.

Aragorn snorted. “You wore it the whole day.”

“I wear all things you give me,” Legolas replied, fingers now weaving smooth, intricate patterns with steady grace. “Even the poor ones.”

A soft laugh, breathy and tired. Then Aragorn’s voice, warm and low: “If you ask, I will braid yours again.”

“I will not ask,” Legolas said. “I value my hair too dearly.”

Another chuckle. Then silence. Legolas worked slowly, carefully, until every strand was bound in his chosen style, the end tied with a strip of worn leather he’d saved just for this. He ran his fingers once more over the braid, smoothing it, admiring the way it rested against Aragorn’s back.

“You fall asleep sometimes,” he said, voice gentler now. “When I braid.”

“I do not.”

“You do,” Legolas said. “Your breathing changes.”

“Perhaps I only do it to hear you say sweet things.” Legolas leaned forward, pressing a kiss just behind Aragorn’s ear.

“Sleep now, meleth-nîn,” he whispered.

For once, Aragorn obeyed without teasing, eyes drifting shut as Legolas pulled a blanket over his shoulders, his braid neat and shining in the firelight.

Chapter Text

The morning light spilled through the window like a blessing, pooling across the sheets. The world outside was quiet, save for a few birds singing lazy, content melodies in the trees.

Inside, within the hush of their room, Aragorn only had eyes for the one who slept beside him.

Legolas.

Curled into the blankets like something sacred, one hand resting on Aragorn’s chest, the other tucked under his own cheek. His lips, slightly parted in sleep, curved ever so faintly upward, like he was dreaming something sweet. Maybe dreaming of him.

Aragorn didn’t breathe for a moment. His heart was too full. How could anyone hold this much love and remain standing?

He couldn’t resist. Slowly, reverently, he raised a hand and brushed his fingers over the familiar beauty of Legolas’ face: the soft rise of his cheekbone, the delicate tip of his ear, the jaw that always made Aragorn’s breath catch. He mapped him like a man desperate to memorize every inch.

He leaned in, lips brushing his forehead like a whisper. Then his nose. Then the gentle swell of his cheek.

Legolas stirred faintly, a sleepy little sound escaping him. “What are you doing?” he mumbled, voice still heavy with dreams.

“Mapping you,” Aragorn murmured, voice thick with adoration. Another kiss, to the corner of Legolas’ mouth. “So I never forget.”

A kiss to his temple. “Brave.” 

The word is barely more than breath against his skin, but it carries the weight of everything Aragorn has witnessed. The strength Legolas always carries, the steadiness, the unwavering grace in battle and in sorrow alike. Aragorn kisses him there like it’s a vow.

One to his jaw. “Beautiful.” 

Not just in the way the world sees him, though Aragorn could write poems about him, but in the way he is. Beautiful in thought, in kindness, in laughter. Aragorn lingers there a moment, lips grazing the delicate curve. As though kissing something carved by the hands of the gods.

A longer, lingering one to his neck. “Mine.”

It’s not possessive, not a claim of ownership. A confession of unconditional love. His lips press against the soft skin beneath Legolas’ jaw, warm and real and living. He stays there, just breathing him in. His hand cradles the back of Legolas’ neck, thumb stroking slowly.

Legolas’ lashes fluttered, eyes finally opening, still softened by sleep. He looked at Aragorn like he was the only star left in the heavens. As if there was nothing else worth seeing in the world.

He reached up, slowly, and tucked a lock of Aragorn’s hair behind his ear, fingers trailing down his face.

“Your voice,” he whispered, “is the sweetest thing I wake to.” Then, so tenderly it almost hurt, he began to return the kisses. One to Aragorn’s brow, a gentle press to the scar on his collarbone, and finally their lips meeting in a kiss that was more devotion than desire. It said I choose you. It said I know you by heart. It said Forever.

Legolas pulled back only just enough to rest his forehead against Aragorn’s, their noses brushing. His hand cradled the side of Aragorn’s face like it was something precious. “And your heart,” he breathed, “is the softest thing I’ve ever known.”

Aragorn swallowed against the swell in his throat. “If the stars fell from the sky,” he whispered, “and all light left the world, I would still find my way by you.”

Legolas blinked once, slowly, a smile blooming on his lips. “And if time forgot my name, I would remember yours. I would find you in every life.”

Aragorn closed his eyes. They didn’t need to speak again. Not when their limbs were tangled beneath linen sheets, not when the sun kissed their skin, not when their hearts beat in perfect rhythm. The world could wait. Time could pause. All that mattered was this morning, this moment, this love.

As they drifted back into half-sleep, skin to skin and breath to breath, Aragorn knew the truth: There was no version of his life, not past, not future, where he wouldn’t love Legolas just like this.

Utterly. Endlessly. Always.

Chapter Text

The forest felt alive. Every tree seemed to lean in, every beam of sunlight filtered like judgement through the leaves. Birds stilled. Even the breeze seemed hushed, as though Mirkwood itself watched the mortal man entering its heart.

Aragorn followed Legolas through the marble gates of Thranduil’s halls, heart steady, but breath tight. He had faced Nazgûl, hunted in shadows, slept beneath bloodied skies. Yet standing in the Elvenking’s domain, flanked by silent guards in silver and emerald, he felt as if the world itself held its breath.

Thranduil stood at the top of the stairs, his white-gold crown frozen in light. His eyes, ageless, too knowing, watched Aragorn with the poise of someone used to being bowed to.

Aragorn bowed deeply.

“My lord Thranduil,” he said with respect. “Thank you for your welcome.”

There was no reply. Thranduil’s gaze did not waver. He slowly descended a few steps, stopping at a height still above Aragorn, ensuring the difference remained visible. Legolas stood beside Aragorn, his fingers brushing Aragorn’s hand briefly.

At last, Thranduil spoke. “You are mortal,” he said. Not a question. A statement.

“I am,” Aragorn replied.

“And yet,” Thranduil’s gaze narrowed slightly, “you stand in my realm with my son at your side. His heart no longer his own.”

“My heart is wholly his,” Aragorn said quietly, but firmly. “And he walks with mine, by choice. I would never claim what he does not offer freely.”

Thranduil tilted his head ever so slightly, considering him. “You love him.”

“More deeply than I can speak,” Aragorn answered. “And not for his beauty, nor his grace, though he holds both. I love the soul beneath them. The light in him. The sharpness of his mind. The steadiness of his spirit.”

There was a long silence. The guards did not move. “And when you fall to time,” Thranduil murmured, “you will leave him behind. And he will fade into grief.”

Legolas shifted beside Aragorn, his jaw tight but Aragorn reached out and spoke first.

“Then I will ensure every day I give him is full of joy. That our time is never wasted. I would rather give him a handful of bright years than promise a thousand dull ones. And I would rather die knowing he was loved as he deserves to be.”

Thranduil was silent again. His face showed no change, but the sharpness in his eyes softened. Slowly, he descended the final step, standing now before Aragorn on equal ground.

“I do not give my son easily,” he said. “He is a part of this realm. He is blood of kings. His life is precious beyond words.”

Aragorn bowed his head once more. “He is precious to me, above all else.”

Thranduil’s hand moved. Not toward a sword, but to Aragorn’s chest. He placed two fingers gently over Aragorn’s heart.

It was not an Elven blessing. Not exactly, but it was something. Recognition. Permission.

“You are brave,” Thranduil said. “Brave to love him. Brave to face me.” Then, unexpectedly, he added, “Should you break his heart… I have excellent aim.”

Aragorn blinked, unsure if it was jest. Thranduil’s lips quirked. “You may laugh.”

“…I’m afraid to,” Aragorn muttered, and Legolas stifled a laugh beside him.

Thranduil finally stepped back. “You are welcome in this realm, Dúnadan,” he said formally. “Not because you are heir to Gondor. But because you have earned my son’s heart. Do not waste it.”

“I won’t,” Aragorn said, and the oath felt sacred.

~Later in the Mirkwood Gardens~

Aragorn and Legolas walked side by side through the trees. The moment felt lighter now, Thranduil’s scrutiny now behind them.

Aragorn ran a hand through his hair and exhaled. “Well. That was… only slightly terrifying.”

Legolas grinned, his whole face softened by affection. “He likes you.”

Aragorn turned to him with a deadpan look. “He told me he had excellent aim.”

“That was him being polite,” Legolas said, completely serious. “He once told a suitor he would carve their name into an arrowhead.”

Aragorn stared at him. Legolas shrugged innocently. “You’re still standing.” 

Aragorn laughed. He drew Legolas closer by the hand, their fingers twining.

“Did I pass?” he asked softly.

“You did more than that,” Legolas whispered, leaning in. “You spoke to him like an equal. Like the man I love.”

They stopped beneath a flowering tree. Aragorn leaned in, pressing a kiss to Legolas’ forehead. Then his cheek. Then his mouth.  In the distance, Thranduil stood silently on a balcony, watching, and unseen by all, smiled.

Chapter Text

The sun had just risen above the cliffs surrounding Imladris when Legolas stepped into the hall. The air was crisp, the mist clinging gently to his clothes. Despite the early hour, he was fully dressed. Formal, but beneath the polished composure, his hands were trembling.

He stood beside Aragorn in the corridor, staring at the tall archway that led into the chamber ahead, heart pounding against his ribs.

“I’m not afraid of orcs,” Legolas muttered. “I’ve faced Wargs without blinking. But this…”

Aragorn, beside him, offered a small smile. “My father can be… particular.”

“I know,” Legolas replied. “But it isn’t his judgment I fear. It’s failing him. Failing you.”

Aragorn took his hand. “You never could.” Their fingers lingered for a breath longer, and then Elrond’s voice echoed from inside the hall.

“You may come in.”

Legolas inhaled once, then stepped forward with Aragorn at his side.

Elrond stood at the far end of the chamber, tall and still in robes of cool silver and moonlight-grey. He looked every inch the legend he was. Wise and ancient. His gaze moved over Legolas, unreadable.

Legolas bowed low.

“My lord Elrond,” he said. “I am honored to stand before you.”

There was a pause. 

“You are the son of Thranduil,” Elrond said at last.

“I am.”

“You are not the first to love him,” Elrond said, “but you may be the first to carry the full weight of it.”

Legolas’ throat tightened. “And I do so willingly. Gladly.”

“You know he walks a dangerous path. You know what lies ahead for him. Would you still bind yourself to a mortal whose road ends far before your own?”

Legolas lifted his chin.

“Yes.”

There was no hesitation. No fear. Just truth.

“I have known him through war, through grief, through silence and joy. My love for him is not a fleeting fire, Elrond. It is the deep kind, slow-burning, constant. He is the steady note in my soul, and whatever years we are given, I would walk them at his side.”

Elrond studied him for a long moment.

“And when he is gone?”

Legolas closed his eyes. “Then I will love him still.”

Silence again.

“You speak with conviction,” Elrond said. “But words can be shaped to deceive.”

“I speak only what I feel,” Legolas answered. “And my heart belongs to him.”

Elrond stepped closer. “He carries much. The weight of men and kings. He is my son, though not of my blood. I raised him. I taught him to guard his heart because I knew it would be tested. And now he gives it to you.”

Legolas met his gaze. “I will protect it as my own.”

A long beat and then, finally, Elrond nodded.

“Then you are welcome in this house, Legolas, son of Thranduil.”

A breath left Legolas he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He bowed his head again, lower this time.

“I thank you.”

Elrond’s gaze softened. “You have his steadiness… and his foolish courage.”

Legolas allowed a flicker of a smile. “He is a terrible influence.”

Elrond let out a quiet hum, close to amusement, and turned away, the conversation at its end.

~Later in the gardens~

Legolas and Aragorn walked beneath the trees. The wind stirred through the leaves above as Legolas leaned into Aragorn’s side. Neither of them spoke at first. Their hands were clasped, fingers entwined, brushing occasionally against the fabric of each other’s tunics.

“You did well,” Aragorn murmured.

Legolas exhaled. “I could barely breathe.”

“He sees you,” Aragorn said. “He knows what I know. That you love me.”

Legolas stopped walking and turned to him.

“I love you in every moment. I love you before battle. I love you when your hands shake. I love you when you say nothing at all.”

Aragorn looked at him. “I never thought I would deserve something like this.”

“You don’t have to deserve it,” Legolas whispered. “You only have to accept it.”

Aragorn leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Legolas’, hands cradling his face. They stood like that for a long while, breathing each other in.

From the shadows beyond the garden archway, Elrond stood in silence, watching them from a distance.

His expression was unreadable but slowly, almost imperceptibly, the corners of his mouth lifted. Not with amusement. But with something older. Warmer. 

Hope.

Chapter Text

The path winds through forest, light bleeding from the sky. The Fellowship walks ahead, their voices drifting faintly back, a murmur of conversation, the clink of mail, the scuff of boots. Back here, behind them all, it’s just Aragorn and Legolas and silence. Not uncomfortable. 

Aragorn walks with measured steps, his gaze forward but his attention impossibly narrowed, drawn again and again to the elf beside him. To the soundless way Legolas moves. To the brush of their cloaks. To the fall of his hair against his shoulder. And to his hand.

That hand. It swings close now and then, loose at Legolas’ side, fingers long, the movement casual. Aragorn’s eyes catch on it every time, then snap forward, sharp with guilt, and again they return.

He shouldn’t be thinking of it. Not here. Not now. Not like this but the ache in his chest has grown impossible to ignore. A wanting he cannot name. Not lust, not yet. Not just affection either but a quiet desperation to be near. To touch.

His hand aches from not reaching out and still, he hesitates.

What if it isn’t wanted? What if this closeness he feels is one-sided. Born of late-night watches and near-death fights and too many glances stolen in the firelight?

He chances a glance sideways. Legolas’ eyes are ahead, but his face is soft, as if lost in thought. The curve of his lips is neutral. Not a smile, but not closed off. His fingers brush his thigh as he walks. Close. So close.

Aragorn’s pulse stutters. He flexes his hand once at his side. Swallows hard. Do it, something inside him whispers. Be brave.

His steps slow. His breath shortens. His hand trembles. 

Legolas shifts. His arm swings wide. The back of his hand grazes Aragorn’s. Barely. A breath, but it’s enough.

He swallows again, dry-mouthed, and finally, finally, reaches out. Tentative. Fingertips brushing knuckles. Once. Twice.

Legolas doesn’t pull away. So Aragorn goes further. Bold, but careful. Their hands slide together. Fingers align. Fold. Interlace.

The sensation floods him. Heat. Calm. The sharp sweetness of something he’s never let himself hope for. Legolas’ hand is warm, so warm, and his grip, when it comes, is sure. Quiet, but certain.

They walk like that, the two of them, hands joined in the golden dim, the rest of the world moving on. Aragorn’s breath catches again when he feels it: a slow movement, Legolas’ thumb, stroking gently over the back of his hand. Comforting. Claiming.

He almost forgets to breathe.

“You’re shaking,” Legolas murmurs. 

“I’ve never…” Aragorn starts, then falters. “I’ve never done this.”

Legolas doesn’t stop walking. Doesn’t turn to look at him. But his fingers tighten.

“I know,” he says simply. His thumb moves again, slow and warm. “Nor have I. But I… it doesn’t feel wrong.”

Aragorn exhales slowly. It doesn’t feel wrong. No. It feels like something his heart has been reaching for without his permission.

He holds tighter. Legolas lets him.

The longer they walk, the more aware Aragorn becomes of every point of contact between them. Not just their hands, though that in itself, is consuming.

The press of skin, palm to palm. The soft calluses at the base of Legolas’ fingers. The strength in his grip. Not hesitant, but not overconfident either. As though he, too, is trying not to tremble.

Aragorn feels the heat of it rising up his arm, his shoulder. It settles behind his ribs and coils low in his stomach.

Their arms brush now with each step. Their hips sway a little closer. Sometimes their shoulders bump gently, and every time, Aragorn’s body tenses  only to melt again when Legolas doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t do anything but continue walking beside him, as though this is natural. As though it’s something they’ve always done.

Aragorn can’t bring himself to look over. He wants to. Gods, he wants to but he’s too afraid that if he does, it will break. 

Instead, he focuses on sensation. Legolas’ thumb moves again. His pulse pounds in his ears. His breathing is shallow, tight and he realizes: Legolas knows.

Not just that Aragorn is shaking. But why. That this is a first. That this is a risk and still, he’s here. Still holding on.

Aragorn dares a glance, just a flicker of his eyes sideways and though Legolas doesn’t meet his gaze, there’s something about his features. A slight parting of his lips. The faintest crease between his brows, like he’s thinking deeply. Or… feeling.

It stuns Aragorn how much emotion lives in those small details. The subtle shift of Legolas’ jaw when Aragorn’s fingers curl just slightly tighter. The inhale he catches, soft and unintentional, when their knuckles brush again. 

Aragorn’s throat tightens. Something that makes his eyes sting, even though there’s no pain.

Just… wonder and  beneath it, yearning. That aching, slow hunger that’s lived in him since he first heard Legolas laugh. Since he saw him bathed in firelight. Since he realized he looked forward to every word the elf spoke. Every glance. Every breath they shared.

He shifts his thumb, mimicking Legolas’ motion. A soft stroke over the smooth skin of his wrist. He feels the faint twitch of muscle beneath his touch, and then a breath. Legolas’ breath. Drawn in just a little deeper.

Aragorn nearly stumbles. Not from the path but from how much it means, that small reaction. That this matters to him, too.

They walk on. Slowly, side by side. Fingers laced, thumbs gently stroking, hearts pounding in their own rhythm but starting to echo one another’s.

Aragorn, for the first time in what feels like years, lets himself hope.

Chapter Text

The long oak table stood beneath a canopy of branches and golden lanterns, scattered with candlelight and petals. The stars were beginning to blink through the sky.

Plates were full. Wine was flowing. Laughter rose in bursts as the Fellowship, older, a little wiser, but still the same, gathered for the first proper feast since the war.

Merry had just finished telling a tale of slipping into a tavern dressed as a soldier of Gondor, earning a round of laughter, especially from Pippin, who nearly fell off his chair.

“You didn’t even have a sword!” Pippin cackled. “You were holding a fire poker!”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Merry huffed, mock-offended. “No one questioned me.”

“They thought you were the entertainment,” Frodo snorted into his wine.

Across the table, Gimli slammed his mug down, beard damp with foam. “You know what real entertainment is? Watching a dwarf outdrink a room full of Rohirrim. Which I did. Twice.”

“Only because you passed out and no one could lift you to carry you out,” Frodo pointed out with a grin.

“I was meditating,” Gimli said indignantly. “In ale.”

Sam passed around his famous berry pie.

“This one,” Gimli announced, pointing his fork at Sam, “should be crowned King of the Shire. Or at least of pastry.”

Sam beamed as Frodo took his hand under the table and gently squeezed it. “He already rules my kitchen,” Frodo said fondly, leaning into Sam’s shoulder. “And I’m not planning a rebellion.”

Aragorn, seated at the head of the table, wasn’t paying full attention because Legolas was beside him looking radiant, hair loose over his shoulders, and Aragorn’s hand was shamelessly resting on his thigh beneath the table.

Legolas didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he was leaning into him, ever so slightly.

“I think you’re trying to distract me,” the elf murmured under his breath. Aragorn smiled, eyes gleaming. “Is it working?”

“You’ve touched my knee five times since the soup.”

“That’s restraint,” Aragorn replied, stealing a quick kiss to Legolas’ temple.

“Oy! They’re doing it again!” Merry crowed from across the table.

“Doing what?” Pippin asked, already grinning.

“The moon-eyes! The hair-touching! The secret groping under the table!”

Legolas raised a brow, but Aragorn didn’t even blink. He reached for a strawberry and turned to his elf with shameless mischief in his eyes. “Open your mouth.”

Legolas glanced at the others, cheeks faintly pink, but obediently parted his lips. Aragorn fed him slowly, letting his fingers linger. Legolas caught his hand afterward and pressed a kiss to his palm.

Pippin collapsed into Merry’s side with a dramatic groan. “We’re all going to die from sugar poisoning!”

“They’ve been like this for years,” Frodo said, laughing. He and Sam were sitting shoulder to shoulder, Sam absently drawing little patterns with his finger on Frodo’s wrist.

“Let them be,” Sam said softly. “If anyone’s earned it, it’s those two.”

“Actually, it’s me,” Gimli interrupted, waving his mug. “Because I’m the one who has to see this every time we travel together.”

“You’re just bitter,” Aragorn said, finally looking up, “because Legolas loves me and not you.”

“I never had a chance,” Gimli muttered. “He likes them tall, scruffy, and tragically noble.”

“Who doesn’t?” Legolas replied airily, clearly pleased with himself. Aragorn practically beamed.

The meal rolled on with laughter and stories. Frodo told the tale of Aragorn’s failed attempt to fish with a spear. Sam corrected every detail. Throughout it all, Aragorn couldn’t stop touching Legolas. His hand constantly brushing his arm, his thumb idly stroking the inside of his wrist, his lips pressing against the point of his shoulder between bites of bread. Legolas was entirely content, every so often turning to whisper something only Aragorn could hear.

“You are staring again,” Legolas said, after catching Aragorn gazing at him for the seventh time.

“I can’t help it,” Aragorn replied. “You’re all I see.”

Legolas tried, very poorly, not to smile too wide.

Later, after the plates were cleared and the stars shimmered above, Aragorn pulled Legolas from his seat. Music had begun, Pippin had found a lute, and Frodo clapped along and a few hobbits were spinning in wild circles.

“Dance with me,” Aragorn said.

“In front of everyone?” Legolas asked, a rare note of shyness in his voice.

Aragorn leaned in, brushing their noses together with gentle affection, his voice a low murmur between them. “They already know I’m in love with you. Let them see it.”

Legolas melted instantly. “Then lead me,” he said quietly, his hand already sliding into Aragorn’s.

They moved to a patch of soft grass, where the glow of lanterns flickered through the trees and stars stretched overhead. The music from the lute drifted gently, slow, meandering notes perfect.

Aragorn’s arms came around Legolas like they belonged there. One at his waist, the other just between his shoulder blades. Legolas let his hands settle against Aragorn’s chest, where he could feel the steady, familiar rhythm of his heartbeat.

They swayed slowly, feet barely moving. Aragorn pressed a kiss into Legolas’ hair and didn’t move his lips away, lingering there as if he could plant a piece of his soul into the strands. Legolas sighed against him, cheek resting over his shoulder, his eyes closed.

Everything else melted away. There was only the feel of Aragorn’s arms, the warmth of his breath against his ear, the slow, constant motion of love held in movement.

“I could stay like this forever,” Aragorn whispered.

Legolas smiled, not opening his eyes. “Then we’ll have to make forever long enough.”

Aragorn tightened his hold just slightly, swaying them into a slow turn. “You feel like peace.”

“And you,” Legolas said, lifting his head just enough to look into Aragorn’s eyes, “feel like home.”

Their foreheads met, breath shared between them. Neither kissed, not yet. it was enough to be wrapped in this warmth, this knowing. Aragorn brushed his thumb in a soft circle over Legolas’ back. Legolas slid his fingers up to trace Aragorn’s jawline, memorizing the shape of the man he loved.

Near the table, Frodo sighed as he leaned back into Sam’s chest. “They look like they belong in a song.”

Sam kissed his cheek. “They are a song.”

Chapter Text

The room is quiet. It’s late evening, and peace finally feels real. The war is over. For once, there’s no rush, no danger, just the two of them in the shared quarters of Gondor.

Aragorn leans against the doorframe, watching Legolas as he arranges the bedding with an almost obsessive precision. Every pillow, every blanket is aligned just so.

“I can never sleep unless the bedding is perfect,” Legolas murmurs, smoothing the edges of the blanket.

Aragorn chuckles softly. “I’ve never had time to worry about perfection.”

Legolas doesn’t even look up, his focus completely on the bed. “It’s important, Aragorn. You should try it sometime.”

Aragorn grins. “Perfect bedding? I think I’ve done fine without it.” He reaches out and grabs one of the pillows, tossing it into a pile on the side. Legolas’s head snaps around, eyes widening in mock horror. “No! You’ve ruined it!”

Aragorn laughs, stepping closer to the bed. “It’s just a pillow, Legolas.”

Legolas’s eyes narrow in mock outrage, but he doesn’t say a word. He reaches for the pillow and begins to smooth it out, his fingers adjusting it with care. His brow furrows slightly as he arranges the blanket, his focus intense despite the humor in the air.

Aragorn watches with growing amusement, the corners of his lips tugging upward. “I’m starting to think you’ve made this into an art form.”

Legolas doesn’t look up. “I’m not a fan of disorder,” he says, though the words are softened by the smile pulling at his lips. He glances up briefly, and his eyes meet Aragorn’s.

Aragorn steps forward, shaking his head, his grin never fading. He moves closer, closing the space between them. Before Legolas can react, Aragorn reaches out and, with a playful pull, drags the elf onto the bed, sending a burst of laughter from Legolas as he tumbles next to Aragorn, still half-tangled in the blankets. 

Legolas shifts, rolling onto his side to look at Aragorn, a smile on his lips. He tries to sit up, but Aragorn gently tugs him back down, drawing him closer. The proximity is comforting, and Legolas’s eyes soften, a sigh escaping him as he relaxes into the embrace.

“Then let me be your disorder,” Aragorn says, his voice lowering to a soft murmur. He presses his forehead gently to Legolas’s, his hands brushing through the elf’s golden hair.

Legolas looks into Aragorn’s eyes, the intensity in the moment reflecting the love that has grown between them over time. A smile tugs at Legolas’s lips, and he lifts a hand to rest lightly on Aragorn’s chest, his thumb brushing across the fabric of his shirt. “I think,” he murmurs softly, “I can tolerate your disorder.”

Aragorn chuckles, his hand resting on Legolas’s waist, pulling him just a little closer, if that’s even possible. “Good,” he whispers. “Because I don’t think I can stop being yours.”

Legolas’s eyes soften, and for a moment, the teasing fades as he simply looks at Aragorn. His hand moves up to cup Aragorn’s face, fingers grazing along his jaw, tracing the lines of his features as though memorizing them.  Legolas leans in, his forehead brushing against Aragorn’s. “You’re ridiculous, Aragorn,”

“I’m your ridiculous,” Aragorn continues with a playful grin, brushing Legolas’s hair back with his hand. He wiggles his fingers slightly, a glint catching the light.

Legolas’s eyes flicker down to Aragorn’s hand, the simple motion drawing his gaze to the wedding ring resting on Aragorn’s finger. A smile spreads across his face as he takes it in. The ring had been there for months now, but it still made his chest tighten with affection every time he saw it.

Aragorn catches his gaze, his smile growing softer. “You knew what you were getting into when you put this on my finger,” he says, his voice low and playful. “I’m a handful, Legolas.”

Legolas laughs softly. He reaches for Aragorn’s hand, fingers brushing against the cool metal of the ring. “I knew exactly what I was getting into,” he says, his tone rich with love and amusement. “And I wouldn’t change a thing.”

Aragorn’s heart swells at his words. He leans in slowly, his lips capturing Legolas’s in a kiss. When they pull apart, Aragorn smirks playfully.

“So, tell me,” he begins, his voice teasing, “if you had known that I would make such a mess of your bedding every night, would you still have married me?”

Legolas raises an eyebrow, looking at him in mock contemplation. “I don’t know… Now in hindsight, maybe I should file for a divorce.” He pauses for dramatic effect, a sly grin tugging at his lips as he watches Aragorn’s reaction.

Aragorn’s eyes widen, feigning shock. “Divorce? Is that how you repay me for my love and my chaotic affection? How could you, Legolas?”

Legolas chuckles and places a hand on Aragorn’s chest. “I’m joking, of course,” he says, his voice softening with affection. “I would never give up my disorder.

Legolas smiles as Aragorn pulls him closer. “Good, because I’ll always be your disorder,” Aragorn whispers, kissing the top of Legolas’s head.

Legolas sighs contentedly, snuggling closer. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

As they settle in, tangled in blankets and each other, Aragorn knows this is where he’s meant to be

Chapter Text

The door to his room clicked shut behind him, leaving him alone with racing thoughts and pounding heart.

He should be resting. Tomorrow they would set out on a journey from which many of them might never return but Aragorn could think of nothing else but the elf who haunted his every waking thought, and every sleeping dream. Legolas.

He stopped before the mirror, arms folded across his chest. His reflection looked back at him: tired, unshaven, serious. A Ranger, a would-be King and an utter coward in matters of the heart.

“Get on with it, Strider,” he muttered to himself.

He straightened his spine, forced his voice to be steady, and tried:

“Legolas,” he began, voice formal, “you are a companion I cherish beyond measure, and-”

He stopped, wincing. Too diplomatic. It sounded like he was bestowing a title.

He ran a hand through his hair, disheveling it worse, and tried again, this time lifting one hand dramatically:

“Legolas, son of Thranduil. Ever since I first laid eyes upon you, my heart has not been my own. I-”

He broke off, groaning under his breath. “Laid eyes upon you”? Aragorn turned away from the mirror, pacing, boots scuffing softly against the floor.

He pivoted sharply back and tried a different tactic: casual, relaxed, charming.

He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, tilting his head at his reflection as if Legolas were standing there:

“You know, Legolas,” he said, smirking awkwardly, “I always thought I would live and die alone. But then you came along and… ruined that plan entirely.”

He winced again. He wanted Legolas to know this mattered, that it wasn’t some jest, wasn’t something Aragorn could laugh off.

He sighed deeply and tried another approach. He stood tall now, placing a hand over his heart, thinking of how he felt whenever Legolas smiled at him. Whenever their hands brushed. Whenever Legolas looked at him with that wonder:

“Legolas,” he whispered, almost reverently, “in all my long years, I have never found a home, nor peace, until I found them in you.”

Aragorn stared at himself. It was better. Truer, but the thought of saying those words to Legolas’ face made his palms sweat.

He grimaced, wiping his hands against his tunic, and shuffled closer to the mirror, speaking even lower now, imagining the elf’s soft gaze, the way Legolas’ voice sometimes turned to velvet when he spoke Aragorn’s name:

“I would walk through the fires of Mordor if you asked it of me. I would give up crown, sword, and name for one moment by your side.” His voice broke at the end, and he closed his eyes tightly.

Valar, he was hopeless. He heard himself laugh. He shook his head, speaking almost mockingly now:

“And what would you say, Legolas? That I am foolish? That you are an immortal prince, and I am nothing but a weather-beaten man?”

He looked at his reflection and softened.

“Yet even so,” he said, “I love you.”  

He dropped onto the edge of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees, hands hanging limply. The words echoed in the room, unanswered as he pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes.

He heard the faint creak of the floorboards by the door. Slowly, painfully, he lifted his head and there, standing halfway into the room, stood Legolas. Wide-eyed, frozen, lips parted slightly.

Aragorn’s heart stopped. “How much did you hear?” He rasped. 

Legolas stepped closer. His face was unreadable, save for the way his hands trembled at his sides.

“Enough,” the elf said. 

There was a silence thick enough to drown in. Aragorn surged to his feet, every nerve screaming to move forward but too afraid.

“Legolas, I-” But he never finished the sentence. Legolas crossed the distance between them in two quick steps, cupped Aragorn’s face between his hands, and breathed:

“Say it again.”

Aragorn, dizzy with disbelief, reached up, cradling Legolas’ wrists as if afraid he would vanish.

“I love you,” he whispered, this time not to a mirror, not to himself but to Legolas, and only Legolas. 

The elf gave a shaky laugh, brushing his thumb along Aragorn’s cheekbone.

“You fool,” Legolas said, voice brimming with unshed tears. “Did you not know? I have loved you since the snows of Caradhras.”

Aragorn’s throat tightened. His hands slid to Legolas’ waist, drawing him closer. Their foreheads touched, breaths mingling.

Aragorn closed his eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by the rush of love crashing against his ribs. When he spoke, his voice was a broken whisper, low and desperate:

“I love you,” he breathed, as if the words were a prayer.

Legolas let out a soft laugh. Half a sigh, half a sob. His own forehead pressed harder against Aragorn’s, his hands sliding from Aragorn’s jaw to the sides of his neck, thumbs brushing lightly over his pulse.

“I love you,” Legolas whispered back, voice cracking.

The simple words hung in the air between them, binding them more than any oath ever could.

Aragorn pulled back just enough to see Legolas’ face, searching his bright eyes, seeing wonder, and longing. His thumb brushed the high curve of Legolas’ cheekbone, and his voice, unsteady with hope and fear, asked:

“May I kiss you?”

Legolas’ answering smile was like the first sunlight after a long, brutal winter. 

“Always,” he breathed, as if he had been waiting forever for the question and Aragorn, with a soft, broken sound, leaned in.

Their lips met. Careful at first, as if they feared to shatter the fragile miracle. Aragorn felt Legolas’ fingers tighten against Aragorn’s shoulders. He responded instinctively, tilting his head to fit them together better, deepening the kiss slowly.

The world fell away. There was no Fellowship, no war, no heavy weight of crowns or destinies. There was only Legolas. Warm, trembling and alive beneath Aragorn’s hands, kissing him back like he too was drowning and Aragorn was the air he needed.

Aragorn felt Legolas’ hands slide into his hair, cradling his head. He broke the kiss only to whisper again, lips brushing over Legolas’ cheek, temple, brow:

“I love you. I love you. I love you.” 

Each time, Legolas answered in kind, whispering the words into the hollow of Aragorn’s throat, against the corner of his mouth, across the line of his jaw:

“I love you. I love you.”

They stayed like that, clinging, pressing kisses wherever they could reach, until their hearts slowed, until their breathing steadied, until the enormity of what had just happened settled between them like the softest, sweetest weight

Chapter Text

The idea first came to Aragorn one quiet night. They lay together in the grass outside the camp, the Fellowship asleep in a loose circle around the dying embers of the fire but Aragorn could not sleep.

Legolas was curled against his side, one arm draped across Aragorn’s chest. His breathing was soft and even, warm against Aragorn’s skin. His hair spilled across them.

Aragorn barely dared to breathe. He could feel every small point where their bodies touched; Legolas’ knee against his thigh, the brush of his fingers against Aragorn’s ribs, the weight of his forehead resting against Aragorn’s shoulder.

In the darkness, with the slow heartbeat of the world around them, Aragorn let the truth rise up without fear:

I want forever. Not battles. Not shadows. Not the endless string of borrowed days and victories stained with grief. Not just another sunrise with him but every sunrise. Every moment. Every breath.

He wanted to stand at Legolas’ side when the world changed. He wanted to grow old, or whatever version of ‘old’ fate would grant them, with him.

He wanted Legolas to know, in every way possible, that he was chosen, not by fate, but by Aragorn’s heart.

Aragorn turned his head slightly, brushing his lips against Legolas’ temple.

The elf shifted in his sleep but did not wake, murmuring something soft in Elvish that sounded suspiciously like Aragorn’s name.

With no idea how to properly honor the feeling that threatened to undo him he began to plan. He would make Legolas see he was already everything and would be, for all the days they were given.

Gimli

It turned out proposing to an elf, a prince no less, was an ordeal.

First came the advice. 

Gimli, puffed with pride, insisted Aragorn needed to wrestle a bear to prove his worth. “Ye need to do something grand,” Gimli declared. “Fight a troll. Wrestle a bear. Show him ye’re strong!”

Aragorn lifted his head just enough to shoot him a look of pure, exhausted despair. His hair stuck out at odd angles where he had run his fingers through it a thousand times.

“I do not think Legolas requires bear-wrestling to be convinced of my love,” Aragorn said flatly.

Gimli snorted, completely unfazed.

“Pah! Elves are dramatic! They love spectacles!” He waved his arms so wildly that Pippin, crouched a few feet away pretending to sharpen his dagger, ducked with a yelp.

“Although…” Gimli mused, stroking his beard with great solemnity, “maybe… don’t fight a bear. Maybe a big fish. Or a boar?”

Aragorn groaned, loudly and helplessly, burying his face back in his hands.

Merry and Pippin

Merry and Pippin wrote him a truly atrocious song

“A song!” Pippin had declared, eyes sparkling. “A real love song!”

“The best song ever written in Middle-earth!” Merry agreed, slamming his mug down with a bang that made Aragorn flinch.

The trouble was, and it became apparent very quickly,  they had decided to write it themselves. Now, sitting by the fire, they beamed up at Aragorn.

Merry stood up, chest puffed out, and began to sing, loud and proud:

“You’re as fair as a blossom new-born-”

He struck a dramatic pose, nearly falling backward Pippin caught him, stumbled, then belted out the next line with just as much gusto:

“-and also you shoot arrows and are never forlorn!”

Pippin threw his arms wide as if expecting applause. Aragorn blinked at them, mouth slightly open in horror.

He opened it again, closed it, and finally said, very carefully:

“…That is… truly terrible.”

Pippin’s face lit up with pride.

“Thank you!” he chirped. Merry slapped Aragorn heartily on the shoulder, nearly knocking him forward into the dirt.

“Don’t you worry, Strider. We’ll perform it at the party! Loud and clear! Right when you go down on one knee!”

Aragorn made a noise somewhere between a strangled groan and a whimper.

Merry and Pippin immediately began arguing about instruments.

“Drums!” Pippin said.

“A fiddle!” Merry said.

“A whole orchestra!” Pippin added, eyes shining.

Gandalf

Gandalf lectured him on kneeling technique.

“We must rehearse,” the wizard said. Aragorn, already fraying at the edges, stared at him.

“Rehearse?”

Gandalf gave him a look as if he were a very slow student.

“You must kneel properly,” he said.

“I know how to kneel!” Aragorn protested, scandalized.

“You will kneel,” Gandalf said gravely, “with dignity.”

Before Aragorn could argue further, Gandalf conjured a large, battered tree stump from the side of the clearing and set it before him like some ancient sacred relic.

“Begin,” Gandalf intoned, waving his staff.

Thus began the most mortifying hour of Aragorn’s life.

He knelt. He stumbled. He fumbled with a wooden practice ring Merry had whittled for him. He forgot his words halfway through and ended up proposing to the wrong side of the stump.

Gandalf sighed so deeply it stirred the grass.

“No, no! Your back is crooked. Straighten your spine, son of Arathorn! Show him your heart with your posture!”

Aragorn groaned and tried again, the ground biting into his knees. Aragorn buried his face in his hands again.

“Again,” Gandalf ordered mercilessly.

Aragorn cursed under his breath in three different languages, hauled himself upright, and dropped back down onto one knee before the tree stump with all the exhausted desperation of a man proposing to both his future and his doom.

Then came the arrangements.

Gimli

Gimli took it upon himself to forge the engagement ring.

“No elvish frippery!” he declared, squinting into the forge’s flames, his beard tied back in a warrior’s knot. “No twirling vines or delicate runes! This is love, not embroidery!”

Aragorn leaned on the stone bench. Gimli worked with precision, every movement deliberate, each strike of the hammer purposeful.

“It’ll be simple,” Gimli muttered as he polished the band, his voice softening. “Strong. Like yer love. Like him.”

He held it up to the light: a smooth band of mithril, its silver surface catching the firelight. No ornament. No gem. Just clean lines and a quiet gleam.

“A dwarf’s work,” Gimli said, placing it carefully into Aragorn’s palm. “Worthy of an elf. And of you.”

Aragorn cradled the ring in his hand as if it might shatter.

That night, long after the camp had gone quiet, Aragorn lay beside Legolas. The elf had fallen asleep curled beside him, one arm tucked under his cheek, the other draped lazily across Aragorn’s waist. 

Aragorn breathed him in. With one hand, he reached out and gently twirled a loose strand of Legolas’s hair around his fingers. The other hand clutched the mithril ring against his chest,  just over his heart.

“I love you,” he whispered into Legolas’s hair. “Every part of me. The king, the ranger, the man loves you more than I thought I could love anything.”

Legolas shifted slightly. “’Gorn…” he murmured, barely more than a breath. His voice was sleep-thick, lips brushing Aragorn’s shoulder.

Aragorn kissed Legolas’s temple. Legolas, still half-asleep, hummed faintly and nestled closer.

Arwen and the hobbits

Arwen strung lanterns in the trees, their casings catching the light of the fading sun. She moved with grace, her fingers weaving ribbons of elven silk around the branches as the lanterns swayed gently in the breeze. One by one, they began to glow, a soft, starlit shimmer.

“Starlight should crown your love,” she said to Aragorn earlier, her smile touched with something fond and bittersweet. “It suits you both.”

Sam tended to the gardens. He planted blossoms in every hue he could coax from the soil: golden snapdragons, twilight-blue columbines, blushing peonies, and gentle violets. The flowerbeds bloomed in soft gradients like the sky at dawn.

“They’ll bloom just in time,” Sam said, brushing dirt from his palms, cheeks flushed with quiet pride. “No love should be without flowers.”

Frodo, Merry, and Pippin took it upon themselves to build a path of smooth river stones and petal trails that led from the carved stone steps of Elrond’s house down into the heart of the garden. Pippin scattered rose petals by the handful while Frodo carefully laid each stone with care, adjusting angles.

Merry, with sleeves rolled up and forehead streaked with sweat, carved tiny runes into the edges of the stones: symbols of friendship, bravery, joy.

“He’s going to notice,” Frodo said, crouching beside him.

Merry shrugged. “Let him. It’s not every day you help your friend ask an elf prince to be his forever.”

Elrond oversaw the preparations quietly, offering small adjustments, a knowing smile never far from his face. There was pride in his gaze and from the heights of Rivendell, Thranduil watched in silence. Eyes unreadable, arms crossed over his chest.

“He loves him,” Elrond had told him gently, once, weeks ago.

“I know,” the Elvenking had replied.

But now he stood still, seeing not a ranger, not a mortal, but the man who had stitched himself into his son’s heart.

Thranduil

The Fellowship had retired to their corners of Rivendell, whispering over last-minute details with the thrill of a secret well-kept.

Aragorn stood on the high terrace, overlooking it all. In his hand, the mithril ring gleamed faintly in the moonlight. His thumb brushed over it again and again.

Behind him, he heard the soft rustle of silk and leather. 

The Elvenking stood tall and unbending, his crown of silver catching the light. He had watched the preparations in silence for days, a ghost among the blooming and now, the night before Aragorn would bare his heart to Legolas beneath stars and blossoms, he approached.

“You summon me to Rivendell, surround me with mortals and musicians and hobbits,” Thranduil said at last, “only to tell me my son is to be tethered to a man with too much fire in his blood and too little time in his bones.”

Aragorn didn’t flinch. His spine straightened.

“I didn’t summon you,” he said. “I asked you to come because I want you to see how deeply I love your son.”

Thranduil’s gaze narrowed, cold and assessing. “If you fail to treat him well,” he said, “I will personally see to your slow demise. And I do not make idle threats.”

The silence that followed was long. Aragorn, heart pounding in his chest, bowed low. He did not speak quickly. He waited, he let the truth settle in his bones.

Then, lifting his head, voice steady and stripped bare, he said:

“I will spend my life honoring him.”

 Thranduil said nothing at first. He looked at Aragorn for a long moment. Ancient eyes searching, seeing the dirt beneath his nails, the wear in his boots, the strength in his voice, and the softness Legolas had clearly found in him.

And slowly, very slowly,  Thranduil inclined his head. Just once. Not surrender. But respect.

“You will speak to me as family, then,” he said. “If he says yes.”

Aragorn gave a small, breathless smile. “If he says yes.”

Thranduil’s lips curled slightly. It was not quite a smile but it was something. “He will. You breathe his name like prayer.”

And then he turned, cloak whispering against stone, and was gone.

Chapter Text

And then the day came

It happened at sunset.

The woods around Rivendell blushed rose, the sky bleeding color through the leaves. Lanterns strung between the trees glowed like stars caught in motion, their silver light flickering. Petals danced along the grass. The air was warm, perfumed with wildflowers.

Somewhere nearby, a lute was being clumsily plucked,  undoubtedly Merry’s doing, and someone was definitely singing off-key. That would be Pippin.

Aragorn stood at the heart of the clearing, his palms damp, his breath tight in his chest, heart hammering against his ribs.

He had walked into battle bloodied and broken but he had never felt terror like this.

The Fellowship,  and what felt like half of Rivendell, were doing a terrible job of pretending they weren’t watching.

Gimli was attempting to “hide” behind a tree. His helmet gleamed in the light, and his beard was very obviously sticking out from the bark. He peered around the side and gave Aragorn a comically exaggerated thumbs-up.

Frodo and Sam were standing together just off the path, whispering and giggling like children, Sam with both hands full of flower petals, Frodo balancing a silver wine goblet and trying not to spill. Sam whispered something that made Frodo snort, and they both quickly looked away as if Aragorn hadn’t noticed.

Arwen stood near the edge of the clearing. She had arranged the silver blooms along the stone path herself, layering the petals in gentle arc. She caught Aragorn’s eye, and her smile was quiet, proud, touched with something bittersweet.

Beside her stood Elrond. His expression unreadable, but not cold. There was something like approval in the set of his shoulders. Permission, maybe. Or peace and then, at the far end of the clearing, Thranduil.

He did not attempt to hide. No, he stood tall and sharp, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes were narrow, his mouth unreadable, his posture that of a king holding judgment in stillness.

And yet… he was here. He had come and that mattered.

Aragorn swallowed. His hand clenched the ring in his pocket like a talisman. His blood thundered.

Please let him say yes. 

Legolas stepped into the clearing. The light touched him first. He moved with the grace of the forest, quiet and unhurried, dressed in soft green and silver that caught the lantern glow and shimmered with every breath of wind.

His eyes found Aragorn’s and softened instantly. He took a step. Another. Around them, the world hushed. Even Pippin stopped singing. Even the wind went still.

Aragorn forgot how to breathe. “Legolas,” Aragorn said. He sank to one knee.

A soft gasp rippled through the crowd like wind through golden trees. 

Legolas’ breath hitched audibly, the color draining slightly from his face before a slow flush crept back in.

“Aragorn—” he said, stunned, his voice a hush of disbelief.

Aragorn pulled the small mithril band from his pocket, holding it out like something sacred. It lay in his trembling hand, the silver catching the dying sunlight. His voice was steady with love.

“You are the fire that drives me,” Aragorn said, “and the peace that steadies me. You are every breath, every step I take.”

Legolas’ lips parted slightly. His eyes glittered with wonder, devotion, disbelief.

“I would follow you into darkness,” Aragorn whispered, his voice breaking as he looked up. “I would follow you into dawn. Be my light. Be my home. Be my husband.”

A silence settled over the clearing. Birdsong had stilled. The breeze had gone quiet. It was as if the whole world had stopped to listen.

Legolas stared as if the earth had slipped from beneath him and left only this, only Aragorn, only love.

He dropped to his knees, his hands cupping Aragorn’s face, shaking with reverence.

And then he laughed. A wild, broken, sunlit sound, almost disbelieving in its joy. He surged forward and tackled Aragorn to the grass, their limbs tangled.

“Yes!” he gasped, kissing Aragorn fiercely, breathlessly, between words. “Yes! Yes, my love… yes!”

Aragorn laughed too and curled his arms around him, burying his face in Legolas’ shoulder.

The Fellowship cheered as one messy and loud and joyful.

Merry threw handfuls of petals straight into the air, only for most of them to land in Pippin’s hair.

Pippin then leapt onto a rock and immediately began to sing what could generously be called a love ballad, though most of the words were made up.

Sam, eyes shining with tears, clung to Frodo and whispered, “I knew they’d get there, Mr. Frodo. I knew it.”

Frodo sniffed and patted his shoulder. “So did I, Sam.”

Gimli groaned, but his smile split his whole face in two, and he clapped his hands once, loudly.

Even Thranduil, standing like an ivory tower in the background, sighed deeply, pinched the bridge of his nose like a long-suffering father… and then gave a very small, very reluctant nod. He said something dry and cutting in Elvish under his breath, but no one translated it.

Elrond actually smiled. It was terrifying.

Arwen stood with her fingers to her lips, tears slipping down her cheeks silently, joy spilling from her eyes.

In the grass, tangled up in each other, Aragorn and Legolas clung close, foreheads pressed together, noses brushing.

Legolas was laughing again, soft and breathless, tears of joy slipping from the corners of his eyes.

“I thought—” he began, then shook his head. “I didn’t think you’d ever… ask.”

“I thought you’d say no,” Aragorn whispered, stunned.

“You’re a fool,” Legolas said, and kissed the corner of his mouth. “And I love you.”

They kissed again, this time slower. “You’re trembling,” Legolas murmured against his lips.

“So are you,” Aragorn replied, touching Legolas’ cheek. “You’re crying.”

“So are you,” Legolas whispered back.

They both laughed then and Aragorn kissed his temple, then his forehead, then the tip of his nose, and Legolas giggled and swatted at him, but leaned in again.

“Did you plan all this?” Legolas asked, eyeing the petals, the lanterns, the hobbits still enthusiastically serenading a nearby squirrel.

“I had… help,” Aragorn said.

“Hmm. Remind me to thank them.”

“You could kiss me again first,” Aragorn said, tugging gently at a strand of golden hair.

So Legolas did, pressing their foreheads together as he smiled against Aragorn’s lips.

From the edge of the clearing, Gandalf cleared his throat loudly. “Will there be cake, or do I have to conjure one?”

“We are trying to have a moment,” Legolas called out, fingers still curled gently in Aragorn’s hair.

“You’ve had several,” Gimli grunted. “Let the rest of us have a turn!”

Aragorn pulled Legolas close again and whispered, “One more moment.”

And Legolas, with a soft, radiant smile, nodded and whispered, “Always.”

Chapter Text

The afternoon sun filters through the trees, casting shafts of light across the woodland. Birds sings above in a soft chorus, and the distant noise of a stream provides a peaceful soundtrack to the afternoon. Legolas moves with ease, gathering herbs, his eyes constantly drawn toward the path where Aragorn is walking.

Aragorn strides slowly down the trail, the weight of their newborn son nestled against his chest in a sling. The baby, a little boy named Thalion, is still too small to do more than rest in his father’s embrace. His tiny hands curl loosely around the fabric of Aragorn’s tunic as he sleeps soundly, his head tucked against Aragorn’s broad chest. 

As Aragorn walks, a soft hum escapes his lips, the familiar melody of an old song from the North, a lullaby his mother used to sing. The tune is barely more than a breath on the wind, but it’s full of the love and hope he has for this tiny life in his arms. Aragorn’s smile is soft, his heart full as he watches the gentle rise and fall of his son’s chest.

Legolas watches them. The sight of Aragorn, walking through the woods, carrying their son so naturally against his chest, fills Legolas with an overwhelming sense of peace. There is something about seeing Aragorn like this that makes his love for him feel deeper than ever.

“You look like a shepherd,” Legolas teases, his voice light as he stands up from his task of collecting herbs.

Aragorn chuckles softly, looking up at Legolas with that crooked, familiar grin. “A very handsome shepherd,” he replies.

Legolas steps toward him. He reaches out, brushing his fingers lightly through their newborn son’s fine dark hair, his heart full as he gazes down at Thalion’s peaceful face. The baby stirs slightly, but remains asleep, curling his little fingers in his sleep.

“He sleeps soundly,” Legolas murmurs, his voice soft. “Your heartbeat soothes him.”

Aragorn’s expression softens as he looks down at his son. “And you,” he says quietly. “You make him feel safe.”

Legolas steps closer, his fingers trailing over the baby’s cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin. His gaze lifts to meet Aragorn’s, their eyes locking. 

Aragorn leans in, pressing a soft kiss to Legolas’s temple. Legolas closes his eyes at the kiss, leaning into the touch, his heart racing. “I love you,” he whispers.

“I love you,” Aragorn responds, his voice low. His fingers gently brush against Legolas’s jaw, before he pulls back just enough to look at him, eyes full of admiration.

Just as the moment settles between them, their older son, Eldrin, trots down the path from where he’d been playing near a small grove of trees. His blond curls are tangled, and his face is flushed with the excitement of adventure. He holds a small wooden sword in his hand, and his eyes light up when he sees his baby brother.

“Papa, is Thalion awake?” Eldrin asks, his voice high with curiosity.

Legolas smiles and bends down to scoop the boy up into his arms. Eldrin giggles, wrapping his arms around his father’s neck. “No, little one,” Legolas replies, “Thalion is still resting.”

Eldrin peers at his brother, looking up at Aragorn. “Can I say hello?” he asks with wide, innocent eyes.

Aragorn smiles warmly, tilting his head toward their son. “Of course, my heart,” he says gently.

Legolas walks over to Aragorn, lifting Eldrin to kiss his baby brother on the forehead, and Aragorn leans down to press a kiss to Eldrin’s hair in return. “Thalion will wake soon, and when he does, you can tell him all about your adventures,” Legolas murmurs, brushing a lock of hair from Eldrin’s forehead.

Eldrin nods, then turns to his father, eyes twinkling with excitement. “I think I’ll teach him to fight with swords when he’s older,” Eldrin declares proudly, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Aragorn’s laughter is soft, full of warmth. “Perhaps we’ll wait until he’s a little older for that,” he says, his voice laced with amusement as he looks at Legolas. “I think Thalion will want to hear stories, not battle plans.”

Legolas grins, his fingers brushing against Aragorn’s hand as they walk together. “Perhaps a little of both,” he muses, the playful gleam in his eyes betraying his own love for teaching. He turns to look at Aragorn. “I wonder, how many more could we have, my love?”

Aragorn’s gaze softens as he looks at Legolas. He feels a quiet yearning in his chest, the love he feels for Legolas, for their children, growing ever deeper with each passing day.

“More?” Aragorn asks quietly. “If you would have them, I would welcome as many as the Valar allow us.”

Legolas smiles, his heart swelling at the thought of a larger family. “We will grow, my love,” he whispers. “And with each new one, my heart will grow deeper, until there is no more room for anything but this love.”

Aragorn leans in, his lips brushing against Legolas’s cheek, the kiss soft but full of promise. “Then let us see what the future brings,” he murmurs, their hands entwining as they continue down the path, their children by their side, and the world at peace.

Chapter Text

Legolas knelt on the garden path, barefoot in the soil. In the sling across his chest, Thalion cooed, enchanted by the sway of the flowers. His fingers opened and closed, reaching out for a petal.

A few meters away, Eldrin crouched beside a shallow pit he had dug beneath the shadow of a rose bush. His small hands were covered with soil, and his cheeks bore smudges of dirt like a warrior… or, in his mind, a “worm-keeper prince.” Eldrin leaned closer to the hole firmly.

In his hand, he held a long, slightly crooked stick, which he used like a wand to gently poke at the soil. “You have to be very gentle with worms,” he said aloud in a tone that suggested he was addressing an invisible classroom. “Because they are sad creatures. They can’t talk or see, so they feel everything. That’s how they know if you love them or not.”

Legolas watched from nearby as he rocked Thalion against his chest. “You’re very wise, ion-nín,” Legolas said. “The worms are lucky to have such a kind protector.”

Eldrin nodded, satisfied by the recognition. He pointed into the pit. “This one is called Saruman,” he announced proudly. “He’s a slow one. I think he’s old. Or tired. Or maybe both. So I told him it’s okay.”

Legolas tilted his head. “And does Saruman understand you, do you think?”

“He listens with his belly,” Eldrin replied with authority, tapping the stick against the ground near the worm. “That’s where worms keep their feelings. So I sing to them sometimes. Like this—”

He began to hum a strange that slipped between notes and had its own rhythm. He swayed slightly as he sang, eyes fixed on the worm.

Thalion let out a soft gurgle at the sound, his hand grasping at the edge of Legolas’s tunic.

Legolas chuckled under his breath, brushing his fingers through Thalion’s brown hair. “Your brother is singing into the earth,” he whispered. 

Eldrin beamed. “Do you think Saruman will be happy now?” he asked.

“I think he already is,” Legolas said gently. The boy grinned, cheeks dimpled. “Maybe Saruman will tell the other worms. Then I’ll have a whole army of happy worms.”

“And what shall this army do?” Legolas asked, amused.

“They’ll guard the garden!” Eldrin declared. “They’ll keep the roots safe from bad bugs and scary things. Because they’ll know it’s our garden, and I’m the worm prince and Thalion’s the flower baby.”

Legolas laughed, his heart aching. He knelt for a moment, reaching out to brush a bit of dirt from Eldrin.

“I cannot think of a garden in all of Arda better protected than this,” he said. “It is blessed beyond measure.”

Eldrin beamed, returning to his humming, this time adding a few words: “Saruman is brave, Saruman is wise…”  Legolas stayed there for a moment longer.

Thalion suddenly stopped babbling. His body tensed in the sling, and his gaze sharpened toward the edge of the garden path.

Legolas turned to follow his line of sight and smiled as he saw Aragorn approaching from the small gate.

“Ada!” Eldrin called, jumping up. “Did you bring apples?”

“Only for good diggers and good singers,” Aragorn replied, smiling.

Before Eldrin could reach him, a voice interrupted.

“…Ada.”

Legolas stilled. He looked down at Thalion. The baby was staring at Aragorn, one hand extended toward him, his mouth open. 

“Ada!”

Legolas gasped. “Estel,” he whispered. “He—he said—”

Aragorn had stopped dead in his tracks. “Did he…?”

Legolas turned, his eyes wide with tears. “He said Ada. He called for you.”

Aragorn was at their side in three quick strides. Legolas unhooked the sling gently, carefully placing Thalion into his other father’s arms.

“Ada,” Thalion said again, giggling this time.

Aragorn’s breath shuddered. “Oh, meleth-nín,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to Thalion’s hair. “You know who I am.”

Thalion nestled into his father’s shoulder, hand fisting in the fabric of his tunic. Aragorn kissed his cheek, his nose, his brow, again and again.

Legolas leaned into Aragorn’s side, his arm slipping around his waist. “He knew,” he murmured. “He always knew.”

Eldrin puffed out his chest. “Well, I said ‘horse’ first,” he declared. “Because horses are very important. That’s how Ada carried you through the mountains, remember?”

Legolas laughed. “We remember, sweet one.”

Aragorn pulled them both close, one arm holding Thalion securely, the other curled tightly around Legolas’s waist. “Do you remember what your first word for me was?” he asked Eldrin with mock sternness.

Eldrin beamed. “It was no.”

Legolas snorted, pressing a kiss to Aragorn’s cheek. “A fitting beginning for your parenting journey.”

Aragorn groaned. “You’re both impossible.” Legolas leaned in, brushing their foreheads together as Thalion babbled once more between them. “You love us anyway.”

“More than anything,” Aragorn whispered. “More than life.”

Legolas kissed him slow and grateful.

As they stood together, Thalion gurgling between them, and Eldrin singing softly to a worm he’d placed in a flower pot, their little garden became the whole world.

Chapter Text

It all started with a smile too polished and too smooth.

A nobleman from Dol Amroth glided forward, dressed in the finest silver robes. He bowed low before Legolas, lingering as he straightened with flourish.

“The beauty of the Mirkwood lives in you, my prince,” the man said, voice smooth. “Never have I seen such grace in all of Gondor. The songs undersell you.”

Legolas offered a polite incline of his head. “You flatter me, my lord,” he replied 

Aragorn, seated just beside him on the throne, said nothing at first but Legolas knew better. The king’s fingers began to tap slowly, rhythmically, against the armrest. One tap, then two. A command.

Don’t indulge him.

Legolas didn’t even glance Aragorn’s way. He didn’t need to. They were years beyond needing looks to communicate. Instead, he turned back to the nobleman with a faint, restrained smile that was all surface and no invitation.

The lord reached out and took Legolas’s hand, bringing it to his lips.

Aragorn’s fingers froze mid-tap.

“A jewel among men and elves alike,” the man murmured against Legolas’s knuckles. “Truly, Gondor is blessed to host you.”

At last, the nobleman turned to Aragorn, as though he had only just remembered he sat beside him.

“Your Majesty,” he said with a bow that was in a way less deep, less respectful. “How fortunate you are to have such… radiant company at court.”

Aragorn rose. It was not sudden (he was still a king)  but there was power in it. His jaw was tight, smile fixed.

“The prince of the Woodland Realm is more than company,” he said. “He is the light of my halls and the steward of my heart. I would advise you, my lord, to remember your manners. It is unwise to reach so boldly toward what is not offered.”

Legolas exhaled quietly through his nose. That was as close to baring teeth as Aragorn ever got in public.

The nobleman’s expression faltered. He bowed again, more deeply this time, and made a hasty exit with murmured apologies.

As the doors closed behind him, Aragorn sat again but not before his hand reached out, possessive and warm, to rest atop Legolas’s thigh.

The next hour passed in a haze of protocol and pleasantries. Noblemen bowed, offered dull commentary about crops and roadways, their eyes pointedly avoiding Legolas. Even those who once sought to flatter the elven prince barely dared glance his way now. The message had been received loud and clear.

Aragorn’s gaze sharpened at the slightest falter. His possessiveness wasn’t loud but it lived in stillness and though Legolas smiled and played his part, he leaned ever so slightly closer into Aragorn’s presence..

That night, the doors to their chambers shut with a thud.

Legolas unfastened the clasp of his cloak and tossed it toward the chaise, then threw himself face-first onto their bed, hair splaying across the coverlet.

“That was exhausting,” he groaned into the pillow. “I never want to socialize again.”

Aragorn chuckled under his breath. His fingers worked open the clasp of his heavy mantle, then lifted the crown from his brow, setting it on the nearby stand with a soft clink.

Legolas turned, flopping onto his side, eyes watching him. “You’re quiet tonight,” he said after a moment, propping himself up on one elbow. “More than usual.”

Aragorn only huffed, folding his tunic.

“Ah,” Legolas murmured, sitting up onto his knees atop the bed. He reached out and took Aragorn’s hand and with one firm pull, he brought him tumbling down onto the mattress beside him. “Tell me what’s going on in that head of yours, my love.”

Aragorn let himself be pulled, exhaling as he landed on the soft bedding. His arms wrapped instinctively around Legolas’s waist.

“I hated that man touching you.”

Legolas tilted his head, amused. “I noticed.”

“I wanted to walk across the hall and strike him,” Aragorn confessed, face buried against Legolas’s collarbone. “Every word he spoke to you was too familiar. That look in his eyes…”

Legolas chuckled and combed his fingers through Aragorn’s hair. “You were very kingly,” he said, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Very terrifying.”

“You’re mine,” Aragorn murmured, possessively. “The world may call you prince, but I call you beloved.”

“And I answer to no one but you,” Legolas whispered, kissing the crown of his head. They lay there a moment longer, pressed close.

Legolas nudged him, smirking slightly. “Though if it helps ease your jealousy… you’re welcome to distract me.”

Aragorn lifted his head slowly. “Oh? I thought you were too exhausted for socializing.”

Legolas grinned. “This isn’t socializing. This is diplomatic tension relief.”

Aragorn laughed and kissed him like he’d never stop.

Chapter Text

It was quiet when Legolas made his decision. No grand speeches. No council. Just the two of them, side by side on a cliff, the sea wind tangling their hair.

Legolas looked out over the waves. “I have made my choice.”

Aragorn turned sharply. “You… you mean to stay? To give up the Undying Lands?”

Legolas finally faced him. “I mean to live. With you. Until my last breath, and yours.”

“You will fade. Your light will dim. You will ache, and age—”

“I will love,” Legolas interrupted gently. “And I will be loved. That is more than immortality.”

He stepped close, resting his forehead to Aragorn’s.

“You are my forever, even if we do not have forever.”

__________________________________

The morning sun dappled their bed.

Legolas blinked groggily, shifting… and winced? His knees ached. His back was sore and he laughed. Actually laughed.

Aragorn stirred beside him, instantly alert. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” Legolas said, stretching. “Just… stiff.”

Aragorn grinned. “Welcome to humanity.”

Legolas rolled atop him, pinning him to the mattress with a smirk. “If this is what being yours feels like… I suppose I’ll endure it.”

“You’ll endure worse,” Aragorn replied, arms wrapping around him. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Their morning lingered into mid-morning, and then afternoon, because neither could bear to get out of bed

__________________________________

Years passed gently. One morning, Legolas stood before the mirror, studying the lines forming beside his eyes. His reflection looked softer now.

“I never imagined I’d see this,” he murmured.

Aragorn came up behind him, resting a chin on his shoulder. “You are still the most beautiful creature I have ever seen.”

Legolas gave a chuckle. “I look… tired.”

“You look lived in. Loved… and every line tells me I’ve done something right.”

Legolas leaned into him. “Promise you’ll keep loving me when there are more lines?”

“I’ll love you until you’re nothing but lines,” Aragorn said, turning him around and kissing every crease he could find.
__________________________________

“Aragorn,” Legolas called, a strange tone in his voice. Aragorn found him in front of the mirror. “It’s here.”

“What is?”

“My first grey hair.”

Aragorn approached. “May I…?”

Legolas nodded.

Aragorn wove it gently into his golden braid. “You wear time like a crown.”

“You make me sound regal,” Legolas said, amused.

“You are,” Aragorn murmured. “You always were."
__________________________________

“Ugh,” Aragorn groaned, holding his back.

“Your age is showing,” Legolas smirked, limping slightly.

“Yours too, melethron.”

They collapsed beside each other on the couch, groaning and laughing at the same time.

“Should we stop sparring?” Legolas asked.

Aragorn kissed his temple. “Never. I like seeing you sweaty and flushed.”

Legolas gave him a look. “Behave.”

“Never.”

__________________________________

Their hands were knotted together on Legolas’ lap, wedding bands dulled with age. Silver strands threaded through Legolas’ hair. Aragorn’s own locks had gone steel-grey.

“Do you regret it?” Aragorn asked. 

“Not for a heartbeat,” Legolas said. “You are the only thing I have ever truly chosen. And I’d choose you again. Every lifetime. Every path”

Aragorn’s throat tightened. “I love you,” he whispered.

Legolas turned fully toward him, kissed him back,  their fingers tightening. “You always say that like it’s still the first time.” 

“It is,” Aragorn said. “It’s always the first time. Every morning I wake up beside you, I fall in love all over again.”

Legolas made a quiet noise, almost a laugh, almost a sigh. “Then let us have a thousand more mornings.”

__________________________________

One night, Legolas fell ill. 

They lay together in bed, facing each other.

“No,” Aragorn said, and his voice cracked. He leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together, his tears already wetting the pillow between them. “No, don’t leave me. Please. Not yet. I can’t—” His words broke into a sob. “I’m not ready.”

Legolas brushed his thumb across Aragorn’s cheek, his hand shaking. “You are stronger than you know.”

“I don’t want to be strong,” Aragorn whispered. “I just want you. I want you to stay. Please, meleth-nîn. Please.”

“I’ve stayed as long as I could,” Legolas murmured. “Longer than any thought I would. Because of you.”

Legolas gave a tired, pained smile, and cupped Aragorn’s face. Aragorn shook his head, tears falling freely now, each sob a tremor from deep in his chest. “I can’t lose you. I can’t—”

“You won’t,” Legolas whispered. He leaned in, kissed Aragorn softly, his lips dry, trembling. “You’ll find me again.”

Legolas drew in one last breath, exhaled it slowly against Aragorn’s skin. His fingers stilled in Aragorn’s grip and his eyes fluttered closed, peaceful and calm, as if falling into sleep.

Aragorn stayed holding him long after. He buried his face into Legolas’s neck, still warm, and kissed him again and again.

__________________________________

Aragorn sat in silence by the window they used to share each morning. Now Aragorn sat alone, wrapped in Legolas’ cloak. 

He held a mug in both hands, the one Legolas had used just days ago. It was cold now, the tea long gone. 

He did not eat. He did not speak. He simply sat, hour after hour, watching the sun climb slowly into the sky, 

The house was too quiet.

There was no sound of feet padding across the floor. No gentle voice calling him to wake. The laughter had vanished. 

He rose on unsteady legs, still wrapped in the cloak, and walked to their bedroom. 

The bed was still unmade. Aragorn had left it as it was. The sheets slightly rumpled, the blanket falling halfway off the mattress. He couldn’t bear to change it. It was the last place Legolas had smiled. 

Aragorn lay down, curling into the place where Legolas had lain. He pressed his face into the pillow that still held the faintest trace of his scent. 

He breathed in once, deeply. Then again. A final breath slipped from him. His eyes closed and he never opened them again.
__________________________________

Aragorn stood barefoot on a shore. 

He looked down at his hands. Steady, strong again. The ache in his bones had vanished. His back no longer bent. 

Across the water’s edge stood Legolas, smiling. 

Their eyes met. Legolas’ lips parted, trembling with relief. “You came,” he whispered. 

Aragorn didn’t speak. He couldn’t. So he ran.

The distance vanished. Aragorn reached him and Legolas threw himself into his arms with tears on his cheeks. Their mouths met in a kiss. 

Aragorn cupped his face in both hands, his thumbs brushing the tears from Legolas’ cheeks. “I told you I wouldn’t be long.”

“I missed you,” Legolas said into his ear.

“I never stopped loving you,” Aragorn replied.

“I know,” Legolas said, and kissed him again. 

They stood like that. Fingers interlaced, lips never far apart. 

No sorrow lingered. No time passed. Just them. Together. Forever.

Chapter Text

The Fellowship had finally found a moment of peace, and naturally, it devolved into something ridiculous.

“Truth or dare?” Pippin grinned, pointing at Gimli.

Gimli scowled. “What are we, children?”

“Yes,” Merry said. “Children with a dangerous mission and too much tension.”

Gimli sighed. “Fine. Dare.”

“I dare you to—” Pippin paused, “—braid Legolas’ hair.”

Legolas arched a brow. “Touch it, and you may lose your fingers.”Gimli rolled his eyes, crawled over with mock grumbling, and began a clumsy braid behind Legolas’ ear while the others laughed.

Boromir snorted into his cup of ale. “That’s not a braid, that’s a knot.”

“My hands are made for axes, not silken threads!”

Legolas didn’t protest. His eyes flicked toward Aragorn across the fire.

Next round.

“Sam,” Frodo said with a grin, “truth or dare?”

“Er… truth.”

“Do you have a crush on someone?” Frodo teased.

Sam went red. “I—no! I mean, not really. Not a crush crush.” His eyes darted to Frodo and then away just as fast. The group laughed, kindly.

Then Sam sat up straighter. “Aragorn,” he said. “Truth or dare?”

Aragorn raised an eyebrow. “Dare.”

Sam grinned. “I dare you… to kiss the one you think is the most beautiful.”

The world paused. Boromir choked on his drink and Merry let out an immediate “ooooh!” while Pippin clapped his hands in delight.

Legolas blinked, and then, oh gods, he smiled. Just slightly. Expectantly. Hopefully.

Aragorn’s heart stuttered. He could laugh it off. Could kiss a tree. Could tease them all. But…

His eyes locked on Legolas. No one else. It had always been him and he’d buried it. Hidden it out of duty, out of fear because if he crossed this line…. if he let himself want…

Legolas wasn’t looking away. His chin was up, lips slightly parted. His eyes were eager.

“Aragorn?” Merry asked. “Are you broken?”

“I’m thinking,” Aragorn muttered.

He rose slowly. The group let out a collective gasp and then giggled like gossiping girls.

Aragorn crossed the fire. He reached up, brushing a strand of hair behind Legolas’ ear. His fingers lingered at his jaw and Legolas leaned into the touch.

“Just a game,” Aragorn murmured. “Right?”

Aragorn’s hand curled at the back of Legolas’ neck, pulled him close and kissed him. Not a peck. Not a joke. A full, heated, kiss. The kind that made Merry and Pippin shriek in delight. That made Boromir mutter “finally” under his breath.

Legolas responded immediately, hands on Aragorn’s tunic, mouth opening with a soft sound that made Aragorn nearly forget the world.

The kiss was slow at first and then deeper, needier, as if they were trying to make up for years of restraint in a single moment.

When they broke apart, the glade fell into stunned silence.

Boromir gave a low whistle. “Well then.”

Frodo smiled. “I believe it’s your turn now, Aragorn.”

Aragorn didn’t move. He didn’t even blink. He stared at Legolas, at his kiss-swollen lips, his messy hair, the pink on his cheeks and something hungry flickered in his eyes.

Without a word, he surged forward and kissed him again. Harder and hotter like he couldn’t help it. Like the dam had burst and he had to taste, had to feel, had to have.

Legolas met him again without hesitation, tilting his head, mouth opening beneath Aragorn’s. His fingers slipped into Aragorn’s hair, pulling him closer. There was no shame in the way they clung, no hiding the desire.

Across the fire, Frodo sighed, leaning back into a blushing Sam. “Let them have their moment,” Frodo murmured.

Sam cleared his throat. “Y-Yes, sir. Though I feel I should look away.”

“I can’t,” Pippin whispered, wide-eyed. “This is the best thing that’s happened all journey.”

“I give them two more minutes before one of them forgets we’re here,” Merry said brightly. “Or Aragorn throws him into the bushes.”

“Oh, he’s close,” Pippin agreed. “You can see it in the grip.”

Gimli grunted. “Elves.”

Boromir smirked. “Men.”

Gandalf chuckled quietly, puffing his pipe. “Love is rarely convenient but it is always honest.”

That was when Aragorn finally pulled back. Barely.

Breathing hard through his nose, he rested his forehead against Legolas’. His hands were still at Legolas’ jaw and Legolas smirked. That little, knowing, wicked smirk. 

Aragorn answered with one of his own, just as feral. 

The Fellowship collectively sighed. Merry nudged Pippin. “We should play this game more often.”

Chapter Text

On the balcony, a chessboard sat between them. Half-played, slightly crooked, and utterly ignored by one of the participants.

Legolas leaned back in his chair, stretching like a cat, hands behind his head, golden hair tousled by the wind. His tunic pulled tight across his chest as he moved, and Aragorn tried very hard not to look.

Aragorn leaned in toward the board, moving one of his knights. Then another. Then another.

Legolas narrowed his eyes. “You’re surrounding me.”

“I am,” Aragorn replied casually. “Gondor excels at strategy.”

He reached for a grape and tossed it into his mouth, chewing slowly as he regarded the board, then Legolas.

The elf’s brow furrowed. “You’ve boxed me in.”

“I have.”

Aragorn’s grin deepened as he leaned forward. “So… do you yield?”

Legolas didn’t answer. He just stared at the board.

Aragorn tilted his head. “You’ve been staring at that piece for ten minutes,” he said, drumming his fingers on the armrest, clearly enjoying himself. “Hoping it’ll grow wings and fly to safety?”

Legolas lifted his gaze, a look that skimmed over Aragorn’s mouth before settling on his eyes. “I’m thinking.”

“Hmm,” Aragorn replied, amused and breathless all at once. “Well, take your time. I’m quite comfortable right here.”

Legolas hummed. “I’m considering my options. Strategy is everything, is it not?”

“You’re considering how to break the rules without me noticing.”

“Untrue. I’m simply… innovating.”

He reached for his knight, hesitated, then plucked it up and plopped it several squares ahead, landing it squarely in the middle of Aragorn’s formation.

Aragorn stared at the board, scandalized. “That’s not a legal move. That’s treason.”

Legolas blinked innocently. “But it’s dramatic. Look how the queen swoops in.”

“This isn’t theater, Legolas,” Aragorn groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

Legolas leaned forward, voice low and sultry. “Isn’t it? Two weary kings locked in a quiet battle beneath the stars. Candlelight flickering. Your noble brow furrowed. My heart pounding. The drama is exquisite.”

“I swear on the White Tree—”

“Oh, not the tree again,” Legolas said, rolling his eyes. “You invoke that tree more than your own sanity.”

Aragorn pointed at the board. “If you move my bishop one more time, I will—”

“You’ll what?” Legolas purred, sliding closer, their knees brushing. “Lecture me? Or perhaps…” He reached out and toyed with the collar of Aragorn’s tunic. “Distract me with tales of your gallant victories?”

Aragorn swallowed. “You’re trying to seduce your way out of losing.”

“No,” Legolas said smoothly, slipping a leg in Aragorn’s lap with practiced ease. “I’m trying to make us both forget we were ever playing.”

Aragorn huffed a quiet laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching upward as his hands found Legolas’s leg. His fingers moved, kneading gently down the curve of Legolas’s calf, tracing along the arch of his foot where it rested in his lap.

Legolas tilted his head, eyes hooded, enjoying the attention.

“Is it my turn again?” he asked sweetly, blinking with an innocence no one alive would believe.

Aragorn gave him a slow look. “You moved twice in a row.”

“I did?” Legolas gasped. “Oh, dear.”

Without a word, Aragorn’s hand tightened slightly, squeezing Legolas’s foot in warning. Legolas met his eyes with a daring smile and then, without looking at the board, slid a piece into a completely illegal position.

Aragorn blinked. “That’s it. I’m declaring war on Mirkwood.”

Legolas snorted. “That would be a tactical mistake.”

“Oh?” Aragorn asked, arching a brow.

“Yes,” Legolas said primly, moving another piece wrong again. “Because I’m no longer Prince of Mirkwood, remember?” He raised his hand deliberately, letting the soft silver band on his finger catch the firelight. “I’m the King of Gondor’s consort now. You’d be declaring war… on yourself.”

Aragorn’s eyes flicked to the ring, catching the way it shimmered on Legolas’s hand as he toyed with another piece. The sight did something to him, something warm and primal and fond.

“A civil war, then,” Aragorn murmured. “I’ll fight myself over you.”

Legolas smiled, dragging his fingers across the board as if contemplating another daring (read: illegal) move. “And who do you think would win?”

Aragorn watched him. The tousled hair. The bare leg in his lap. The ring that glittered like a promise.  Legolas shifted in his seat, the hem of his tunic riding higher as his leg slid more fully into Aragorn’s lap. His bare toes traced slow, idle circles on Aragorn’s thigh. “I’d wager you’d lose gloriously,” he murmured.

Aragorn’s gaze dropped to where that foot was now dancing along the inseam of his trousers. His jaw tensed, but his lips twitched.

“You fight dirty,” he muttered.

“I play dirty,” Legolas corrected, trailing a fingertip up the line of his own throat, knowing full well Aragorn was watching.

“Oh, I noticed.”

Their eyes locked and then with a slowness, Legolas reached over the board, leaned forward just enough that his chest grazed the edge, and plucked up Aragorn’s queen. He turned it thoughtfully between two fingers.

“Careful,” Aragorn warned, voice hoarse. “That piece is very dear to me.”

“So am I,” Legolas whispered, eyes glinting with affection.

He slid gracefully onto Aragorn’s lap, chessboard forgotten entirely, knocking over the king piece in the process. His hands came to rest on Aragorn’s chest.

Legolas’s gaze flicked down to the toppled king. A slow grin curved his lips. “I win.”

Aragorn huffed a laugh, eyes narrowing. “This time.”

Before Legolas could offer a retort, Aragorn’s hands slid beneath his thighs. With one fluid motion, he lifted the elf into his arms. Legolas let out a soft, delighted noise, legs wrapping around Aragorn’s waist, his fingers curling at the back of Aragorn’s neck.

“You’re carrying me off the battlefield?” Legolas asked with a smile.

“No,” Aragorn said. “I’m declaring war.”

Legolas’s brows arched. “Oh?” His tone shifted. “Then I, consort of Gondor, demand terms.”

“There are none,” Aragorn murmured, kicking open the bedroom door. “Only surrender.”

Legolas gasped in mock offense. “You would ravage your own husband in cold blood?”

Aragorn growled, walking them through the doorway.

“Then I suppose I must defend myself,” Legolas whispered dramatically, lips brushing his ear. “To the death.”

Aragorn grinned as he crossed the threshold.

“I’m counting on it.”

The door closed behind them like the fall of a banner.

Chapter Text

The inn was dimly lit, filled with the low murmur and the scent of ale and pipe smoke. Most of the Fellowship had long gone to sleep, but Aragorn remained, standing at the bottom of the wooden stairs, one arm wrapped firmly around a very inebriated elf.

Legolas leaned heavily on him, hair tousled and cheeks flushed. His usually graceful gait had devolved into clumsy sways and uneven steps. His bow had been set aside hours ago, but he still clutched a goblet he’d long since emptied.

Aragorn’s voice was soft but stern. “Careful. You’re going to fall if you lean—”

“If I told you,” Legolas slurred, “how often she crosses my mind… you’d think I was enchanted.” He blinked up at Aragorn, his eyes glassy.

“Legolas…”

Legolas wobbled, foot slipping on the stair. Aragorn caught him instantly, arms around his waist, pressing him close against his chest.

The elf let out a soft breath, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh, his head falling against Aragorn’s shoulder. “And if you saw how many sketches of her I’ve stared at. Portraits in Rivendell, gifts from mortals… you’d think she and I… were dear companions.”

“I think you’ve had more wine than even a prince of Mirkwood can manage,” Aragorn said gently.

Legolas fumbled at the keyhole. “I know her star sign,” he muttered, squinting at the door as if it were conspiring against him. “And her blood type. Well—if Elves have such things. Elrond probably knows.”

Aragorn sighed and reached for the key in Legolas’s hand. “Let me.” He slid it into the lock and turned it easily, pushing open the door with a quiet creak.

Legolas stumbled inside and immediately began to strip, his quiver dropped onto the floor with a thud, followed by his belt and jerkin, leaving him in just the soft shirt that clung loosely to his frame. He turned around mid-motion and looked at Aragorn with bleary eyes.

“I’ve heard every… every tale she’s in,” Legolas slurred, waving a hand as if to conjure her image. “Every scroll, every song. And oh Valar—she sounds beautiful.”

Aragorn lingered by the door, exhaling through his nose, then quietly pushed it closed with a soft click.

Legolas took an unsteady step toward him, tugging uselessly at a stubborn button on his shirt. “I know you loved her once,” he mumbled. “And I know I sound pathetic… but I’m…. What do the hobbits say? Butthurt.”

Aragorn crossed the room in three strides, steady hands reaching to undo the buttons Legolas couldn’t. The elf stilled as Aragorn’s fingers worked carefully at the fabric.

“I can’t help it,” Legolas whispered, voice wobbling. “Even if I want to.”

Aragorn didn’t speak, only kept working at the last of the buttons. 

Legolas let out a breathless laugh, half-sob, half-joke. “She’s got those lips,” he murmured, stumbling backward from the touch. “She’s got those hips… the life of every damned feast in Imladris.” He turned clumsily, arms spread wide as if addressing a crowd that only he could see. “Talented. Good with children. Speaks kindly of me—ha! Even when she shouldn’t.”

He wobbled again, catching the corner of the table, and Aragorn stepped in without a word, hands firm at his waist, guiding him upright once more.

“You speak kindly of her, too,” Aragorn said softly.

“I do, don’t I?” Then, after a pause, “That’s the worst part.”

Aragorn eased him backward, toward the bed, helping him sit. The mattress dipped beneath their weight as Legolas collapsed onto it.

“Is she friends with your friends?” he asked suddenly, looking up from the folds of his own hair.

“She is,” Aragorn answered. He pulled his tunic over his head.

Legolas’s eyes followed him, glassy. “Is she good in bed?”

Aragorn stilled.

Legolas huffed, turning his face toward the ceiling. “Do you think about her? No, I’m fine, it doesn’t matter.”

The silence stretched. 

“Tell me,” he whispered, voice cracking.

Aragorn sat beside him slowly, boots falling to the floor with two soft thuds. “I do not think of Arwen,” he said.

“Is she easy-going?”

“She is gracious,” Aragorn replied, slipping beneath the coverlet. His body was warm beside Legolas.

“Never controlling?”

“No,” Aragorn said again. “She is gentle.”

Legolas turned his head, eyes wet and far too blue. “Well-traveled? Well-read?”

“Yes.”

The tears came without warning. “Oh, gods,” Legolas choked. “She makes me so upset.”

Aragorn turned toward him, fingers catching Legolas’s jaw, tilting his face up. Then he kissed him.

Mouths meeting in a promise that trembled between hunger and relief. Legolas sighed into it, fingers curling into Aragorn’s bare shoulder, and deepened the kiss. 

Aragorn let it last a breath longer, a heartbeat more and then he parted, resting his forehead to Legolas’s with an exhale.

“I’m so obsessed with your ex,” Legolas whispered, voice slurred and cracking at the edges. His thumb brushed over Aragorn’s cheek.

“You shouldn’t be,” Aragorn said gently. “There is no comparison.”

Aragorn shifted closer, sliding a hand over Legolas’s ribs. 

“Is he friends with my friends?” Aragorn asked quietly. “Yes. They love him.”

He leaned closer, brushing his lips to Legolas’s temple.

“Is he good in bed?” A pause. “I would wager the best, once he’s not full of wine and heartbreak.”

Legolas gave a breathless laugh that turned into a hiccup.

“Do I think about him?” Aragorn continued. “Every moment. Every breath. When he’s near. When he’s gone.”

He reached for Legolas’s hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles.

“Is he easy-going? Not always,” Aragorn murmured. “Stubborn but patient. And kind. And funny.”

Legolas didn’t speak.

“Never controlling?” Aragorn shook his head, lips brushing the skin between Legolas’s brows. “Never. Fierce and free, and always himself.”

He settled fully beside him, letting his arm wrap around Legolas’s waist.

“Well-traveled? Well-read?” he whispered. “Wiser than he pretends. Holds poetry in his fingers and war in his bones. I’ve never known anyone like him.”

Legolas’s lip trembled.

“And gods,” Aragorn said, tucking the hair behind Legolas’s ear, “he makes me so in love I can hardly breathe.”

Legolas buried his face in Aragorn’s chest. Aragorn held him there, one hand gently stroking down the length of Legolas’s back. The room had grown quiet, save for the occasional creak of the inn settling. 

“You need to sleep, my drunk elf,” Aragorn murmured, pressing a kiss to the crown of his hair. “You’re going to feel awful in the morning.”

Legolas gave a small hiccup, nuzzling closer. “Thank you,” he slurred softly. “For always reassuring me…”

His words trailed off, melting into a sigh as his fingers curled lightly against Aragorn’s chest. Within moments, he was asleep. Aragorn smiled into the quiet and tightened his arms around him, as if to say: Always.

Chapter Text

They were arguing. Something small. Something ridiculous.

Aragorn couldn’t even remember what had started it. Something about court protocol, or maybe a letter that hadn’t been answered. It didn’t matter.

Legolas stood barefoot in the doorway, arms crossed, hair tousled and falling into his face, wearing Aragorn’s tunic inside out, and speaking far too quickly.

“I told you,” Legolas was saying, gesturing with one hand, “if you delegate the correspondence to your steward again, he’s going to forget to reply to the Mirkwood envoy and then your father-in-law. Sorry, my father will assume you’re ignoring him on purpose and send another crate of dried moss or something equally passive-aggressive.”

“I wasn’t ignoring him—”

“No, but it looks like you’re ignoring him, and I know you think court politics are beneath you but you are quite literally the king now. I had to sit through an entire supper with Lord Maethoril telling me how gracious it was of Gondor to extend silence as a diplomatic gesture. Aragorn, do not laugh at that, I am being serious!”

Aragorn wasn’t laughing, not really. He was watching. Listening, yes but not to the words. The way his hands moved in irritation, how his mouth kept curling. How, even barefoot and ranting about dried moss, he looked ethereal.

Legolas sighed, pacing now. “And I know it’s not intentional but the least you could do is read the letters before handing them off… Do you even know how many titles I apparently have now? Gondor has adopted me like a stray cat. I received one addressed to ‘Prince of Mirkwood, Lord of the Glade, Consort of the Crown, and Steward of the Royal Hawks.’ We don’t even have royal hawks.”

“You were the one who helped that one injured hawk—”

“That was once. I fed it meat strips from my fingers, not founded a department of avian diplomacy!”

“Are you done?”

Legolas narrowed his eyes. “No.”

“Please, continue.”

“I will,” Legolas snapped, then pointed at him. “You do this on purpose. You forget, I fume, you look at me like that and then you win.”

Aragorn blinked. “Look at you like what?”

“Like I hung the moon and you’re just grateful to breathe the same air.”

Aragorn’s smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Well. You did, and I am.”

Legolas groaned. “Unbelievable. Unbelievable.”

But even as he turned away, muttering under his breath about hawks and etiquette and Gondorian drama, Aragorn could only stare. Irrevocably in love. 

“You’re not listening,” Legolas said.

“No. I’m falling in love with you again.”

Legolas looked down at himself, took in the inside-out tunic, the bare feet, and let out a slow exhale through his nose. “You are a terrible man to argue with,” he muttered.

Aragorn smiled. He crossed the room slowly, each step closing the distance. “You look absurd,” he whispered, fingers brushing down Legolas’s arm. “And beautiful.”

Legolas rolled his eyes but didn’t pull away. “You’re trying to win.”

“I already have.”

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to Legolas’s, his hand finding the small of his back. The argument, whatever it had been, dissolved. What was left was only the warmth between them.

Legolas huffed. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I’m lucky,” Aragorn murmured, brushing a kiss to his cheek, then another to the corner of his mouth, “in every way.”

Legolas didn’t answer and simply leaned in, pressing a kiss to Aragorn’s jaw, then his temple, his fingers curling into the fabric of Aragorn’s shirt. Their mouths met, slow and smiling.

Aragorn’s hands found Legolas’s hips, then lower, and with a soft breath he swept him up. Legolas made a startled sound, but it dissolved into a laugh against Aragorn’s neck.

“You’re absurd,” he murmured.

“And you’re mine,” Aragorn replied, crossing the room and lowering Legolas onto the bed.

Their fingers stayed tangled. Their foreheads touched again. 

“I’ll send the letter to Thranduil,” Aragorn murmured. “Today. I swear it.”

“Good. He’s probably already imagined five ways I’ve been kidnapped.”

Aragorn smiled and let his gaze drift downward, over the soft fall of golden hair, the faint flush still high on Legolas’s cheeks and the very obvious fact that his tunic was still inside out. “You know,” he said, brushing a knuckle along Legolas’s jaw, “you look utterly adorable wearing my tunic inside out.”

Legolas groaned. “You were distracting, alright?” he muttered. “I was in the middle of being angry. I didn’t have time to… check orientation.”

Aragorn laughed softly, tightening his arm around him. “You make being furious look devastatingly endearing.”

“Stop talking,” Legolas mumbled, still refusing to lift his head. “You’re going to ruin my reputation.”

Aragorn pressed another kiss to the top of his head. “Too late.”

Chapter Text

Sunlight shines through the windows. The soft murmur of children fills the room. Eldrin, sitting with focus on his little carved lute, plucking out a tune his music teacher taught him, and Thalion, sprawled on the floor, legs kicking idly as he stacks stones in a little tower.

The notes drift through the air. Aragorn lifts his head from where he’s sorting scrolls on the table. His brow furrows. Then lifts.

The song… He knows it. 

A slow smile spreads across his face as he turns toward Legolas. The elf is already watching him. Bright-eyed and fighting a grin.

It’s their dance. A ridiculous, joyful, flirty thing they made up during the days of the Fellowship. 

Legolas bites his lip, but the smile breaks through.

Aragorn takes one step back, hand rising with the dramatic pulling gesture,  fingers curled slow.

Legolas lets out a laugh. His body answers without thinking. He walks forward in beat with Eldrin’s rhythm, hips rolling softly, and when Aragorn pulls again, Legolas is already there, close, his breath warm.

Then Legolas retreats, a single backward step. He lifts his hand and does the same pulling motion, but with more flair. 

Aragorn walks forward, grin growing, adding a little shimmy of his hips, just enough to make Legolas laugh aloud again.

In sync, they move. Legolas shuffles left twice, arms loose, and Aragorn mirrors him perfectly with two rightward steps, never breaking eye contact.

Then they reverse. Legolas to the right, Aragorn to the left. A dance they’ve done a dozen times before, and never forgotten.

Eldrin doesn’t even look up,  still playing with brows furrowed, tongue peeking out but Thalion watches with wide eyes, delighted.

Aragorn reaches out, catches Legolas’s hand, and twirls him fast. Legolas spins into him, chest against chest, laughing breathlessly and Aragorn kisses him.

Legolas sinks into it with a pleased sound, arms curling around Aragorn’s shoulders, fingers tangling in his hair.

“Ewww!” Thalion cries from the rug.

“Not while I’m playing,” Eldrin mumbles, still strumming.

Aragorn just deepens the kiss, smiling against Legolas’s mouth as the music keeps playing.

Thalion stares at his parents with wide eyes as they remain entangled in a kiss that still hasn’t quite ended.

“Can I dance it too?” he chirps suddenly, interrupting them with no shame. “Please? I want to learn it!”

Aragorn chuckles, pulling back just enough to glance at Legolas. The elf nods gently, brushing hair from Aragorn’s cheek and murmuring, “Of course, iôn-nín. It’s a very special dance.”

“A secret one,” Aragorn adds, crouching down with a playful grin and reaching one arm forward. “It begins like this. You have to pull.”

He curls his fingers slowly, exaggeratedly, miming the same move he did with Legolas, and Thalion gasps in delight.

“That’s silly!” he giggles, bouncing up onto his feet.

“Ah,” Aragorn replies with a mock-serious tone, “but very important. Now you walk toward me. Just like that!”

Thalion takes a few bold, clumsy steps, mimicking the beat of the music still drifting from Eldrin’s lute. His laughter rings clear as he reaches Aragorn and throws his little arms around him.

Behind Aragorn’s back, Legolas lifts a finger and gestures silently, then mimes a pulling motion of his own, eyebrows raised at Thalion.

Thalion’s eyes light up with glee. With great concentration, he takes a slow step back, raises both small hands, and pulls at the air.

Aragorn makes a show of staggering forward, arms limp, lips parted dramatically. “Oh no,” he gasps, “I’m being pulled by an elf prince!”

Thalion bursts into wild laughter, jumping with excitement.

“Next,” Aragorn says, “the shuffles. I go this way.” He takes two shuffles to the right, and Thalion eagerly takes two to the left, eyes never leaving his father.

“Now the other way!” Aragorn calls.

Thalion obeys, this time with a hop added in for good measure.

“Very good!” Legolas calls from behind, his voice full of amusement.

Aragorn scoops Thalion up with one strong arm, laughing with him as he spins the child around once in a fast, whirling circle.

Thalion squeals with delight, little hands gripping Aragorn’s shoulders tightly, brown hair flying back from his flushed face.

Aragorn sets him onto his hip and presses a kiss to his temple, chest heaving from both joy and movement.

“Just like your Ada,” he says softly.

Thalion beams.

Aragorn leans in and catches Legolas’s hand, pulling him close again with that familiar hunger. “You,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the corner of Legolas’s mouth, “are still the best thing I’ve ever danced with.”

Legolas laughs, lips brushing Aragorn’s in response but just as their mouths meet again, a sharp voice cuts through.

“Ada!” Eldrin huffs from across the room. “You’re kissing and dancing and you’re not even listening to my playing!”

Aragorn pulls back, chuckling, resting his forehead briefly against Legolas’s. “He’s just like you,” he whispers with a grin.

Legolas snorts, swatting at his shoulder. “He’s precise and proud. That’s you.”

Aragorn shrugs. They both turn toward their eldest, who is sitting very straight, very serious, chin high, fingers poised over the strings like a true court musician.

Legolas steps forward, one hand still resting gently on Thalion’s back as the little one leans against Aragorn’s chest.

“Oh, forgive me, min bardh nín,” Legolas says with a bow. “Your song was so beautiful, I could not help but dance to it.”

Eldrin tries to hold his scowl. He really does but a flush of pride blooms in his cheeks despite himself.

With a little clearing of his throat and a purposeful flick of his hair behind one pointed ear (a habit so unmistakably inherited from Legolas that Aragorn has to fight back a smile), Eldrin sets his fingers back on the lute strings and begins to play again. 

Aragorn lets Thalion down gently from his hip, and the little one lands with a bounce. “I show you! I show you, Eldrin!” he announces, legs already shuffling in a clumsy attempt at the moves.

Aragorn’s hand slips forward, resting gently over Legolas’s stomach. Not possessive, just knowing. 

Legolas’s breath catches, just slightly. He glances sideways at Aragorn, a slow smile growing. “You knew?”

“I always do,” Aragorn says softly, eyes still on their children. Then he looks at Legolas, and his thumb brushes slow, tender circles over Legolas’ stomach. “You carry my heart three times over now.”

Chapter Text

My love,

You left five days ago, and I already hate every hallway. Everything is too quiet. My boots echo, and the sound only reminds me you’re not beside me. Gondor is cold without you. I still think I see you around corners.

You took the blue tunic I liked on you. You’d best wear it, or I will ride to Mirkwood and put it on you myself.

Your father has not yet sent word, but I know from experience that silence from Thranduil means either disaster or efficiency. I hope, for your sake and mine, it is the latter. I know your presence steadies him.

I slept in your shirt last night. I didn’t mean to. It was just folded at the edge of the bed, and I couldn’t stop myself. I miss you, my elf. 

Please write soon. Or better… come home.

Yours, always,

Strider

-------------------------------------------------------

Strider,

I am wearing the tunic, thank you. It still smells of you, and I refuse to wash it until it fades. My father is deeply unimpressed with my behavior. I told him to write to you if he had complaints.

He replied he’d rather suffer in silence.

Mirkwood is unchanged, and yet not. I miss you. My body misses yours at night, and my thoughts wander to you far too often in court. I tried to pay attention to a border dispute yesterday and all I could think of was the way your fingers curve against my hip when you’re too tired to speak but still want to touch me.

I think I’m becoming scandalous.

I’ve been sleeping in your cloak. I look ridiculous, but I don’t care.

Write again. Quickly.

Your elf

-------------------------------------------------------

My heart,

I nearly choked when I read that line about my fingers. You are absolutely becoming scandalous, and I will be thinking about that sentence for the rest of the week.

I miss the weight of you in our bed. The way you throw off the blankets and then burrow back into me five minutes later.

Faramir says I look dazed. I told him it’s because I was thinking of the way you walked through the citadel the last time you visited, with your hair loose and that smile. 

Come home before I become tragic and start writing poetry.

Yours, desperately,

Strider

-------------------------------------------------------

My love,

Write poetry, and I swear I will gallop home tonight just to stop you.

The rain is heavy today. I imagined you beside me this morning, your beard wet and your lips warm, scolding me for staying out too long. I miss that voice. That scolding. That mouth.

I cannot stop wearing your clothes. My maids are scandalized. They will recover.

I love you.

Yours,

Your elf

elf

-------------------------------------------------------

My elf,

I will now write poetry. About your ears. About your walk. About your sighs and the way you look at me when I put my boots on your clean floor.

You threaten to gallop home, but I think you secretly want to be caught in the rain and rescued by me. Admit it.

The tunic you left me, the green one with the soft collar, I’ve stopped pretending it’s just for comfort. I wore it to a council meeting. One of the ministers stared too long. I stared back harder.

I miss your laugh in the halls. I miss the sound you make when you stretch in the morning. I miss your hands.

Come home soon. Or send another tunic. This one might not survive another night.

Yours,

Strider

-------------------------------------------------------

My beloved Strider,

You wore my tunic in public?

I’m smiling and blushing, and my maids are exchanging glances. I will never wear that tunic again. It’s yours now.

I dreamt of you last night. You stood behind me in the library here and whispered nonsense into my ear while I tried to translate an old Elvish text. When I turned, you kissed me.

I miss your hands on my hips. I miss the weight of your arm across my belly. I miss being yours, in every way.

Yours,

Your heart

-------------------------------------------------------

My heart,

I read your letter in bed. I shouldn’t have. Now the sheets are twisted and I’m restless.

There is still a dent in your pillow.

I took your tunic again last night. I might need another one after all. It’s… tired. Poor thing.

Return to me soon. Or I’ll start singing.

Yours (unreasonably desperate for you),

Strider

-------------------------------------------------------

Strider,

If you sing, I’ll know. I’ll feel it on the wind and something inside me will die.

My poor tunic. Should I weep? Or be honored?

I long for the weight of your head against my shoulder. I miss the way your hands settle on my waist when you think I’m not paying attention. I even miss your snoring.

I’ve taken to sleeping in your shirt. It smells less like you now. I press it to my chest and pretend your arms are still around me.

Sometimes I forget how long I’ve been away. Then I feel it all at once, and it hurts.

Yours, aching,

Your elf

-------------------------------------------------------

My love,

The bed is too wide without you. I reach and find only cold linen.

I kiss your tunic like a fool. You must never tell a soul. (Unless it makes you blush. Then, do.)

The nights are worse than the days. I pace. I read your letters until I can hear your voice in them. I miss your back pressed to my chest. I miss waking to the smell of your hair and the weight of your leg over mine. I miss being yours in the soft hours.

Yours always,

Strider

-------------------------------------------------------

My Strider,

This will be my last letter.

I am coming home.

Tell the guards not to stop a galloping elf. I will not be patient. I will not be graceful. I will throw myself into your arms and you will catch me or we both fall.

I cannot breathe without you anymore. I don’t want to try.

I’ve packed only one tunic. The rest I will wear from your wardrobe.

Yours. Every part, every breath, every step closer,

Your elf

Chapter Text

The sun hung on the horizon, orange and gold. It casted long shadows over Helm’s Deep. Wind moved through the stone.

Legolas stood on the wall, silent. Beside him, Aragorn stepped into place, saying nothing. 

The sky darkened, each moment slipping through their fingers.

“It is beautiful,” Legolas said quietly, eyes never leaving the horizon.

Aragorn turned toward him and not the sky. He took in the line of Legolas’s jaw, the faint sheen of his hair in the light, the strength in his posture.

“Yeah,” Aragorn murmured. “Beautiful.”

Legolas turned, eyes catching Aragorn’s. He smiled and Aragorn exhaled before he realized he had been holding his breath. The sight of him, glowing in the last light of day, was enough to stagger.

Then Legolas looked back out to the sunset.

“It will begin soon,” the elf said. “By this time tomorrow, it may already be over.”

Aragorn let the words settle.

“What do you think will happen tonight?”

Legolas’ voice was soft, but it carried fear he would never name aloud, and the weariness of a warrior who had lived far too long.

Aragorn did not look away from the sky. “What is written in the songs, of course,” he said. “We slay a hundred orcs, save the people of Rohan, and are in bed before dawn. The usual.”

Legolas let out a soft huff that was almost a laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement.

“You do like to romanticize things,” he said.

Aragorn glanced at him. “Well, I have to. You elves are always so dramatic. Storm clouds and omens, speaking in riddles. Someone has to provide balance.”

“I am not dramatic,” Legolas replied with mock indignation.

“You arrived in Rivendell wearing armor,” Aragorn countered.

“There was a war brewing!”

“There was a council.”

They shared a look, and the smile on Legolas’s lips spread, softening him. They fell into silence again. With no warning, Legolas leaned his head against Aragorn’s shoulder.

Aragorn froze. Every part of him stilled but his heart, which thundered in his chest. The warmth of Legolas against him. Legolas’ hair brushing Aragorn’s cheek, the steady rhythm of his breath. It was too much and not enough.

“If I die tomorrow,” Legolas said, “or if we both do… I would like to savour this.”

“You won’t die tomorrow,” he whispered, lowering his head to rest against Legolas’s. “Neither of us will.”

Legolas hummed softly, not entirely in agreement. “You sound so sure.”

“I am.” Aragorn swallowed. “Because we have too much to live for.”

At that, Legolas tilted his face upward, his breath brushing against Aragorn’s chin. Their lips were inches apart.

Aragorn looked down, and for a moment, he was caught between Legolas’s eyes and ancient starlight.

Legolas mirrored him, his gaze drifting from Aragorn’s right eye to the left.

Then Legolas leaned in and Aragorn didn’t hesitate. He closed the distance.

Their lips met tentative at first, but the world didn’t shatter. 

Legolas’s hand found the edge of Aragorn’s cloak, fingers curling in the fabric as their kiss deepened. Aragorn reached up to cup the side of Legolas’s face, thumb brushing the edge of his cheekbone.

They pulled apart, foreheads resting together, breath mingling.

Legolas’s lips curved into the smallest smile. 

The light was nearly gone now. Below, the fortress was quiet. The storm was coming. They could both feel it but here, just above the chaos, there was them.

“I’m glad,” Legolas said. “That I’m here. With you.”

Aragorn didn’t answer with words. He simply reached for Legolas’s hand, interlaced their fingers, and squeezed.

No more promises needed to be spoken. The night would come, and with it, the war. For now, there was a sunset. There was the press of shoulders. There was a kiss that had come just in time and there was love.

Chapter Text

He knows the effect he has. The battlefield isn’t the for games. Unless you’re Legolas, and every look, every movement, is part of one. A tilt of the head, a flash of teeth when he smiles just a little too long in Aragorn’s direction. 

Aragorn watches every time. He doesn’t speak of it, of course. He’s too noble for that. Too bound by whatever lines he’s drawn for himself between desire and discipline.

But Legolas? He’s never needed permission.

And tonight, after blood and steel and the ache of victory, he’s feeling generous.

Let the man look.

Orcs, fast and many, claw through the trees. Legolas moves, arrows never missing. His braid whips over his shoulder as he turns, looses, turns again. He doesn’t check to see if Aragorn is watching. He knows he is.

When he swings up into a tree to gain the high ground, he lands without sound. 

Below, Aragorn cuts through two Uruk-hai in one motion, grim and focused. His sword gleams in black blood but when he glances up, and sees Legolas above him, smiling down with lazy amusement something in him breaks.

It’s in his eyes. Desire. Raw. Thinly leashed. 

Legolas smirks and vanishes deeper into the trees.

Let him chase.

Later, after the bodies are cleared and the fires are lit, the men settle into quiet. 

Legolas finds Aragorn alone by the river, washing blood from his hands. Aragorn doesn’t look up right away but Legolas waits. Patient. 

Finally, Aragorn speaks.

“You shouldn’t toy with me.”

Legolas leans against a tree, arms crossed, one foot cocked. “Who says I am toying?”

Aragorn looks up then and he’s hungry. Starving, even.

“You look at me like you’re offering something,” Aragorn says, voice low. “Then vanish the moment I reach for it.”

Legolas pushes off the tree, slow and deliberate. He steps into Aragorn’s space, crowding close, letting their bodies almost touch.

“I offer nothing,” he whispers against the stubble of Aragorn’s jaw. “You take. That’s the difference.”

Aragorn’s hand twitches at his side, as if it aches to touch but he doesn’t. Not yet.

Good. Let him starve a little longer.

The next day brings another battle. The enemy moves faster this time. Legolas is already moving before the others stir. He leaps from rock to rock across the stream, loosing arrows with inhuman speed.

Aragorn follows on foot, sword flashing as he carves a path toward him. He fights with ferocity, more reckless than usual as if needing to prove something to someone.

Legolas watches from the corner of his eye as Aragorn cuts down a particularly large orc and glances back at him, panting.

Their eyes meet across chaos and Legolas smiles. Not gratitude. Not pride. Invitation.

That night, Aragorn corners him in the woods, away from the others. “You’ve been playing with me,” he says. “Since the first battle.”

Legolas doesn’t deny it. “I’ve given you nothing you didn’t want.”

Aragorn steps closer. “You make it impossible not to want.”

Legolas hums. “That’s not my problem, Estel.”

His tone is maddeningly light but his eyes burn with something darker.

Aragorn grabs his wrist, just tight enough to make a point. “And if I stop asking?”

Legolas leans in, breath ghosting over his lips. “Then you better be prepared to pay the price.”

Aragorn’s breath hitches but he lets go.

Of course he does.

Legolas walks away without looking back, the ghost of a smirk on his lips.

The rumors spread. The way Aragorn watches the elf like he’s a temptation. The way Legolas never seems to mind the attention.

He flirts in ways only Elves can. With looks, with the way he stands too close, with words wrapped in layers of meaning.

The men whisper. Even Gimli says something crude once and Legolas only arches a brow and says, “Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”

But Aragorn says nothing because he can’t. He wants too much and Legolas gives him just enough.

A brush of fingers when they pass. A smile over a goblet. A single word whispered in Elvish when no one else can hear.

Mine, that word says but only when I allow it and so it continues. The battlefield. The tension. The hunger. 

Legolas, always just out of reach. Not cruel. Just in control because he knows that Aragorn will keep following. Keep watching. Keep starving and when Legolas does finally let him in, if he ever does, it won’t be surrender.

It’ll be victory.

Chapter Text

The night was clear and the fire was warm. Merry and Pippin were laughing as Sam handed out second helpings. Frodo sat close, watching them all with that look of someone who loved deeply.

Gimli polished his axe while Boromir was doing push-ups. Gandalf sat, content and still, smoke curling from his pipe in loops.

Aragorn sat on a rock beside the fire, jaw tight, fingers twitching on his knee because Legolas was across the fire, legs folded beneath him, braiding his own hair.

The elf hadn’t said much all evening. He rarely did unless prompted, and even then, only when his words felt necessary. 

Aragorn watched the way Legolas’s fingers moved as he sectioned his hair and wove it into a braid. 

Aragorn swallowed and looked away and then back again. He’d never wanted something he couldn’t name more in his life.

“Something bothering you, Strider?” Gimli grunted, not looking up from his axe.

“No.”

“Hm.”

He forced himself to glance at Gimli still polishing his axe but his eyes didn’t stay there. 

Legolas’s braid had slipped down over one shoulder now. The elf held it and smoothed it with his palm before moving on to the next.

He looked so serene and Aragorn didn’t understand it. He was wanting someone so badly his throat ached. 

Across the fire, Legolas tilted his head slightly and caught Aragorn’s gaze. He said nothing and looked away to resume his braiding. 

Aragorn didn’t know why but he wanted to kiss Legolas,  Wanted it in the marrow of his bones, where duty had no place. Wanted to kiss Legolas in a way that made his breath shallow.

Legolas was sitting a short distance away and Aragorn, fool that he was, just stared.

You want him.

Aragorn looked at Legolas, really looked: the subtle curve of his mouth as it tilted up in a smile, the long fingers weaving through strands, the faint smudge of dirt on one cheekbone. 

Legolas glanced up, catching his gaze once again.

Their eyes held but still Aragorn said nothing.

Maybe he wants you too.

The idea was cruel because it sounded like hope.

Aragorn’s hands curled into fists in the grass beside him.

Just ask him. Just lean over. Just—

Aragorn didn’t move. He couldn’t. Something inside him trembled of fear and want. 

His jaw clenched. He looked at Legolas again. The braid was nearly finished.

Aragorn’s breath hitched.

What if this was it? Their last evening before battle. Their last sunset. Their last chance.

He didn’t know how to speak it. Words felt clumsy, foolish. He would trip over them, ruin the moment but maybe he didn’t need words.

Legolas glanced up again, as if he were waiting for him.

Aragorn stood slowly, his legs unsteady. The distance between them felt like an ocean, and yet, he crossed it with determination.

Legolas sat by the fire, way too beautiful for this world. He looked up as Aragorn approached.

Aragorn’s heartbeat pounded in his ears. He knelt slowly, so they were face to face.

Legolas did not move. His hands were folded in his lap, but his eyes never left Aragorn’s. They searched his face.

Aragorn reached up, the backs of his fingers brushing a strand of pale hair from Legolas’s cheek. It slipped through his fingers like silk. He let his thumb linger along the cheekbone, stroking once.

Legolas’s gaze flicked down to Aragorn’s lips and then back up.

Aragorn swallowed and his mouth was dry. Their foreheads brushed as Aragorn’s fingers slipped behind the nape of Legolas’s neck.

He could feel his pulse in his throat, in his fingertips. 

Steady, he told himself. Do not rush this. 

He closed his eyes for a heartbeat, then leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Legolas’s lips. When he pulled back, he saw Legolas’s eyes flutter closed, lashes trembling on his cheeks. A moment passed and then Legolas opened them again. Wordlessly, Legolas slid a hand into Aragorn’s hair and pulled him back in.

“It don't take a word, not a single word, go on and kiss the girl”

Chapter Text

The twilight shimmered over the surface of the lake, a quiet sanctuary within Lothlórien. The only sounds were the occasional splash of a fish, the rustle of leaves, and the faint cooing of swans gliding nearby.

Aragorn stood at the edge of the shore, eyes fixed on the pair of swans circling each other. Legolas was beside him, silent, his gaze equally drawn to the creatures that moved, their necks curving and dipping in an intimate dance. It was a dance Aragorn had never known before.

“They mate for life,” Legolas whispered. “The swan dance reinforces the bond between them.”

Aragorn turned to him. “I did not know that.”

Legolas smiled. “It is said that the dance is a vow. Not just of love, but of loyalty and trust. Each movement a promise, each curve of their necks a pledge to never part.”

The warmth in Legolas’s voice stirred a longing within Aragorn that had been gathering between them for too long. Aragorn stepped closer.

“Perhaps,” Aragorn said, “we should learn the dance ourselves.”

Legolas’s gaze lifted to meet his, brows arching with challenge and a flicker of hope. “Do you think you can match the grace of a swan, Ranger?”

A low chuckle rumbled from Aragorn’s chest. “I do not need grace. I only need your hand.”

Without hesitation, Legolas reached out, fingers curling gently around Aragorn’s. They moved to the water’s edge, bare feet sinking into the cool, soft mud. The swans had noticed them now, gliding closer, as if to bless the dance. Aragorn tightened his grip on Legolas’s hand, and took a breath.

Legolas began with a slow step, one foot crossing in front of the other. Aragorn mirrored him awkwardly at first, unsure of how but Legolas was patient, guiding him with steady hands on his hips. 

“Like this,” Legolas murmured, thumb brushing a small circle on Aragorn’s side. “Feel the flow… not with your mind, but your heart.”

Aragorn’s pulse quickened as he swallowed and tried again, this time matching Legolas step for step.

Their feet traced arcs and circles in the mud, their bodies leaning toward each other in a balance of give and take. Aragorn felt the ache of longing and hope intertwining with each motion. When Legolas lifted his arm, fingers extended like a swan’s wing, Aragorn responded by curving his own.

“Look at me,” Legolas whispered, his breath warm. Aragorn obeyed. 

The swans echoed their movements on the water, necks intertwining in a perfect reflection of the bond growing between the two men. 

Legolas’s hand slid from Aragorn’s waist, trailing upward along his ribs. “You move like a warrior, but dance like a lover,” he teased.

Aragorn’s lips twitched into a smile, but his eyes darkened with desire. “And you—”

Before he could finish, Legolas stepped closer, closing the distance until their bodies brushed, heat radiating between them. 

He leaned forward, lips brushing against Aragorn’s, a feather-light touch filled with yearning. The kiss deepened gradually.

Legolas’s hands came to rest against Aragorn’s chest, fingers curling. “Don’t stop,” he whispered against the kiss.

Aragorn responded by tilting his head, deepening the kiss again, tasting the faint salt of Legolas’s skin, feeling the flutter of his breath mingling with his own.

When they finally pulled apart, Legolas rested his forehead against Aragorn’s. “Forever.”

Aragorn smiled. “Forever.”

Beneath the watchful eyes of the swans, beneath the stars, their bond was sealed with a dance of two souls intertwined, destined to move together.

Chapter Text

The elven fair was ridiculous. Loud, colorful, spinning, sticky with the scent of sweets and sweat. Elven children darted under rope lines, Merry and Frodo had somehow consumed four candied apples each, and somewhere Gimli had just shouted “I WIN AGAIN, ELF!” from a ring toss booth that had clearly been rigged.

In the middle of it all, Legolas glowed. There was something about him under the fairground lights. Aragorn had seen it before, in starlight, in battle, in bed, but here against the chaos, it stole his breath.

“You’re staring,” Legolas said beside him.

“I’m allowed,” Aragorn murmured. “You’re mine.”

Legolas tilted his head. “Careful, melethron. Say that too loud and the mirror maze might shatter with vanity.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“It’s a dare.”

So of course, they went in.

The mirror maze was a warren of glass and illusion. Every turn offered a dozen Legolases. Smirking, curious, all watching Aragorn.

“This is cruel,” Aragorn muttered, palm pressed against cold glass. “You already haunt me enough. Now you multiply?”

A soft laugh rang out from the left.

“Then perhaps I should moan. Help you find the real one.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

They twisted deeper. Turned right. Then left again. At one point Aragorn walked straight into his own reflection.

“You kissed that nose once,” Legolas said dryly from behind him. “Shame it got you lost.”

“I thought I was kissing a prince. All I got was sass and cheekbones.”

Another laugh, closer this time. He turned again, and suddenly no mirrors. Just one corridor and Legolas at the end of it. The real one.

It hit Aragorn all at once how easily he’d lost him in the reflections. How the distance had felt wrong in his chest. The ache was ridiculous. They’d been apart for maybe five minutes. Still, it was enough.

“There you are,” Aragorn said softly, walking toward him.

Legolas didn’t move. He stood very still, arms at his sides.

“What if I wasn’t?” he asked. 

“Then I’d have burned the whole damn maze to find you.”

The laugh this time was small. Aragorn didn’t stop walking.

“I hate mirrors,” he muttered. “They show me you, but I can’t touch you.”

“Touch me now, then,” Legolas whispered”

Hands sliding up his sides, into hair. Their foreheads touched first and then their mouths found each other. The kiss was off-center, lips parted, shaky with laughter.

“You taste like honeyed almonds,” Aragorn mumbled.

“Frodo made me try one. It was sticky.”

“You’re sticky.”

“You love it.”

“I do,” Aragorn admitted, kissing him again. “Gods, I do.”

When they finally stepped back into the open air, Gimli glanced up from a pile of funnel cakes and groaned.

“Took you long enough. Did you move in to the damn mirror house?”

“We were finding each other,” Aragorn said easily, slipping his arm around Legolas’s waist.

“Again,” Legolas added, grinning. “It’s a recurring theme.”

As the evening rolled on, Aragorn found himself glancing at Legolas more than once. Not because he feared losing him again but because every time he saw him now, he knew no reflection would ever match the real thing.

Chapter Text

Legolas stood in the shadow of an archway, unnoticed. He watched Aragorn kneel before a woman, her leg wrapped in linen stained with herbs. She winced, and Aragorn offered her not just medicine but gentleness. 

A child tugged on Aragorn’s sleeve, filthy-faced and no older than seven winters. Aragorn turned, smiled, and it struck Legolas like a blow. The smile was warm and whole. 

How long had it been since I allowed myself to see him like this? 

Aragorn’s hand lingered a moment on the boy’s shoulder before he stood again. A streak of green smudged his cheek, absurdly out of place. 

Legolas had followed Aragorn through war. Slept beside him under stars and shadow, fought beside him, bled beside him but never had he seen him like this.

It was long past midnight when the knock came.

Legolas sat up, hair loose and a book resting forgotten in his lap. He rose and unlatched the door.

“Put on something comfortable,” Aragorn said, voice low. “And come with me.”

Legolas didn’t ask where or why. He only moved. They walked in silence, Aragorn leading.

The clearing they reached was small and tucked between tall oaks. Someone (Aragorn, he guessed) had already laid a blanket down, and beside it, a bottle of wine.

Legolas sat beside him as Aragorn leaned back on his palms, eyes fixed on the sky. “When I was young, I used to think the stars were gods. Not Valar. Just… watching. Waiting.”

“And now?”

“People who carried others through the dark.”  Aragorn turned, and for a moment, their faces were close. 

“You were beside me the whole way,” Aragorn said quietly. “Your light guided me more than the stars ever did.”

Legolas looked away, afraid that if he didn’t, everything he had buried would rise. He didn’t understand this weight in his chest. Being near Aragorn felt like standing on the edge of the highest tree in the forest, wind in his hair, earth far below, and he didn’t want to climb down but to leap. 

Though he didn’t know if Aragorn would leap with him. So Legolas said nothing. Just leaned back on his elbows, tilted his head toward the stars, 

Legolas stood barefoot before the mirror, the one leaned against the stone near his bed. His tunic hung loose from his shoulders, fingers pausing at the laces like he had forgotten how they worked. His hair was still tangled from the forest but it wasn’t the outside of him he was looking at.

It was his own reflection. Love was something he had seen in others. In glances exchanged, in ballads sung. It was not meant to be like a storm rising through his chest without permission. Not like thinking of Aragorn’s hands, not on a sword, but on his skin.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. His heart was meant for the forest, for stillness, for peace. Not for longing. Not for a man. Not for a mortal. Not for Aragorn.

But when Aragorn turned to him in the clearing, eyes full of stars and past pain and something soft, he saw the truth reflected clearer than the mirror before him.

It was Aragorn. Not an elf-maiden of the Woodland Realm. Not some immortal other. But him.

You are the one I want to be touched by.

He imagined Aragorn behind him. Warmth radiating from his chest. His arms circling Legolas’s waist. The scratch of his beard brushing against Legolas’s temple.

The image was so real it made Legolas reach back, hand ghosting behind him as though he might find Aragorn there.

He didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

He pressed his forehead to the cool surface of the mirror, breath fogging the glass. “What are you doing to me?” he whispered.

Aragorn stood across from him in the grass, sleeves rolled, tunic clinging to his chest with sweat. His sword belt was discarded, replaced by hand-to-hand. 

Legolas circled him, heart pounding faster than it should. Not from exertion but from the ghost of Aragorn’s arms in the dark that still hadn’t left him.

“You’re distracted,” Aragorn said, grinning like a man who knew exactly what that meant.

“I am giving you a chance,” Legolas replied, raising his hands. “Even mortals deserve small mercies.”

“Oh?” Aragorn lunged. Their bodies met with a clash of forearms and momentum, spinning in the grass, breathless and tight.

They pushed apart, circled again.

Legolas struck first this time, but Aragorn ducked and before Legolas could react, Aragorn hooked his leg around the back of his knee. Legolas fell with a startled sound, landing hard on his back.

Before he could rise Aragorn straddled him. Legolas blinked, breath knocked from his lungs not by the fall, but by this.

The way Aragorn loomed over him, thighs braced to either side of his hips. His hair loose, shadowing his face, and that crooked, warm grin.

Their chests rose and fell in time and then Aragorn reached down.

First, his fingers brushed Legolas’s cheek (dirty from the fall) and swept a lock of hair behind his ear. 

Aragorn’s hand traced the line of his jaw, down his throat, to the center of his chest where his tunic laced. His palm lingered there, over his heart, which was now hammering wildly, betraying every thought Legolas could not say.

Aragorn was looking at him like they were standing on the edge of something sacred and Legolas could only stare up, stunned, and so utterly alive he thought he might dissolve.

“Say something,” Aragorn murmured, voice husky, low. “Or I’ll keep touching you until you do.”

Legolas swallowed but  his voice failed him.

Instead, he reached up, hand trembling slightly, and pressed it over Aragorn’s where it still rested on his chest.

Legolas had come because Aragorn asked. No reason given. Just his name, spoken low in the corridor after supper, and a look Legolas had not been able to walk away from.

Now here he was and Aragorn was barefoot before him, eyes soft, hair unbound, tunic unlaced at the throat. He looked like home, though Legolas had never named a place that way before.

“Come,” Aragorn said gently, holding out his hand. “Just lie with me.”

Legolas moved without thinking. He reached for Aragorn’s hand and let himself be led to the bed. The sheets slightly wrinkled, the mattress still warm from earlier.

They lay down facing each other, bodies close but not touching. There was space between them but it was the closest Legolas had ever felt to someone in his life.

Aragorn didn’t reach out. Didn’t pull him close. Just stayed. 

Legolas had been kissed before. He had been praised, desired, even loved but no one had ever simply waited beside him like this. No one had made him feel as though every beat of his heart was seen and understood and welcomed, no matter how loud.

The path was quiet, wildflowers brushing at their knees. 

Aragorn walked ahead, not far, just a pace or two. Close enough that Legolas could hear the sound of his breath. 

Legolas froze at the edge of the lake, struck by the beauty of it. Aragorn turned and met Legolas’s eyes. Didn’t speak. Just held out his hand again and Legolas took it.

They stepped into the shallows, boots forgotten, trousers rolled to the knee. 

“You’re not bound to me,” Aragorn said quietly. “You could walk away. Tonight. Tomorrow. And I would not stop you.”

Legolas’s heart beat hard and fast. “Then why bring me here?”

“Because if you don’t know by now,” Aragorn said, stepping closer, “I needed to say it plainly.”

The world stilled. 

“I love you, Legolas. And I don’t know what will come, whether I rule a kingdom or fall trying, but every part of me wants this. You. As you are.”

All the weeks of unsaid things, of held breath and stolen glances and aching restraint…. This was what they had been moving toward and still… the choice was his.

His body moved before thought could catch up. His hands came to Aragorn’s shoulders, warm under his tunic. “You already have me.”

Aragorn’s breath caught and then he kissed him.

Their mouths met. Legolas’s hands slid to Aragorn’s neck. He could feel the pounding of his heart there, echoing his own. Aragorn’s fingers curled at his waist.

The kiss deepened and then became hungry, as though all the restraint between them had finally broken loose. Legolas gasped softly against his lips. 

The world could end here, and he would not care. He had never been touched like this, like someone who was known and as Aragorn pulled him closer, their foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling Legolas finally let himself feel everything.

And he did not fall. He flew.

Chapter Text

The halls of Imladris slumbered under moonlight and the stars hung bright above the valley.

On a balcony of the House of Elrond, a tall figure stood still. His robes stirred in the breeze, as did the long golden strands of his hair, loose. Legolas Greenleaf, son of Thranduil, Prince of the Woodland Realm, gazed eastward, toward lands far beyond the reaches of Rivendell.

Behind him, in shadow, Aragorn lingered near the threshold. He had come in silence, his footfalls quiet upon the stone. He stopped, watching.

He is fairer than any tale told in the tongues of Men, Aragorn thought, his heart stirring. Not merely beautiful, not in the way mortals described it but rather clear like the morning sky after rain. Fierce and fair. Proud and free.

His lips parted slightly, thoughts rising before he could tame them: I’m going to walk up to him and say, “You’re the most gorgeous and... and the most beautiful of-"

“Strider.”

Aragorn froze. “You heard me.”

“I felt you,” Legolas corrected, not turning. “You tread lightly, but your thoughts are not so quiet.”

A pause, then Aragorn stepped forward until he stood at the Elf’s side. “Forgive the intrusion.”

Legolas inclined his head, finally glancing at him. “There is no intrusion in good company.”

They stood in silence a moment. 

“You do not sleep,” Aragorn said.

“No more than you.”

“True enough,” he murmured, “I wonder who among us truly can, knowing what lies ahead.”

Legolas turned his eyes back to the east. “The road is long and heavy with shadow. The Halflings bear more than any should. Yet they are stronger than they know.”

Aragorn nodded. “Frodo is brave. Braver than I expected. Than I knew to expect.”

“And Samwise. Loyal beyond reason. He watches Frodo even in sleep.”

“Aye.” Aragorn leaned on the railing. “Would that all kings had such companions.”

Aragorn’s gaze drifted sideways toward the line of Legolas’s profile. He studied the curve of his cheek, the high arch of his brow, the faint shimmer of moonlight upon skin. 

I know so little of him, Aragorn realised, beyond what is whispered. That his eyes are blue as the sea, his hair golden as sunlight, his skin pale as moonlight. That he speaks freely and without fear, even before kings. That he laughs rarely, but when he does, it is like birds taking flight.

Yet I know not what sorrows he’s carried. What victories he’s forgotten. What dreams he still holds.

Legolas turned to him. He did not smile. He only looked and before Aragorn could summon restraint, the words slipped from his lips.

 “Valar, your eyes are like sapphires.”

Legolas blinked once, slowly. The look he gave was half amusement, half something else. Sultry, though unintentional. 

Realising himself, Aragorn rubbed the back of his neck. “That was… rather corny, wasn’t it?”

Legolas tilted his head. “Oh, not at all.”

Aragorn chuckled softly. “You are kind.”

Legolas turned back to the horizon. “Not kind. Only truthful.”

“Why did you volunteer?” Aragorn asked at last. “To join the Fellowship.”

“It was not a matter of will.”

“No?”

“I was sent,” Legolas said simply. “My father mistrusts the Dwarves, and yet he values oaths. He would not have our realm seen as shirking duty, not in such a matter.”

“But you came,” Aragorn said. “Not another.”

“I came,” Legolas echoed. “And I do not regret it.”

Aragorn reached up almost without thought, brushing a loose strand of hair from Legolas’s temple, tucking it gently behind the point of his ear.

At once, he drew back. “Forgive me. I forgot. Elves do not touch so freely.”

Legolas turned his head and reached up in turn, catching one of Aragorn’s dark strands where the wind had blown it loose. Gently, he tucked it behind Aragorn’s ear with the same tenderness and looked out again.

Aragorn’s heart gave a traitorous thump against his ribs.

Legolas’s lips curled. “I can hear it,” he said.

“Hear what?”

“Your heart.” He glanced at him. “It beats faster now.”

Heat touched Aragorn’s neck. “I-” He gave a quiet huff of laughter. “You would make a poor minstrel, but a terrifying scout.”

Legolas’s eyes lingered a moment. Then he turned fully toward the open air.

“It is late,” he said. “We should rest. A long journey awaits us with the sun.”

Aragorn nodded, but did not move. Legolas leaned in and pressed his lips to Aragorn’s cheek. Then, near his ear, he whispered in Elvish. “Sleep well, Estel.”

With that, he turned, and stepped away to pass through the open arch. At the threshold, he paused. Looked back once. Then he was gone.

Aragorn remained still, fingers lifting to brush the place where Legolas’s kiss had touched him. He turned, gazing out over Rivendell and smiled.